


Burned

by jehans



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternative Universe - FBI, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Russian Mafia, Undercover, Undercover as a Couple, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:29:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehans/pseuds/jehans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Grantaire are undercover FBI agents and not-quite-partners. They work together so well they almost act as one person, but off the job it's hard for them to keep from killing each other. Or jumping each other. Whichever comes first, really. But with the Solntsevskaya Bratva job getting more and more complicated and Enjolras' complete inability to make good life choices, Grantaire is starting to wonder if he'll be able to do his job this time and keep Enjolras alive long enough to come home.</p>
<p>[Also read: that FBI fic that's not quite a Graceland AU and involves a whole lotta UST and a whole lotta Russians.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The Solntsevskaya Bratva is a real Russian gang that has presence in the US in various cities including New York and San Fransisco, but obviously everyone in this fic involved with it is entirely made up inside my head.
> 
> 2\. "Tara" is based on the same real-life thing that "Graceland" is, in that there actually were/are several undercover safehouses throughout California, but "Tara" is in the Bay Area because the Bay Area is badass.

Enjolras is fucking _terrible_ at taking direction. He probably would have been at the top of his class at Quantico, except this little shortcoming of his had him stuck solidly in the middle, despite his undeniable brilliance. It is, Grantaire thinks for about the eight thousandth time, possibly one of the _most_ annoying things about his very annoying kind-of-partner.

Special agents don’t really get partners — its just not part of the job, especially when you’re an undercover — but Grantaire and Enjolras come as a package deal. Mostly because Enjolras is _fucking terrible_ at taking direction and the only thing Grantaire seems to actually be good at is keeping Enjolras alive and safe. Enjolras is nothing if not radical and Grantaire is excellent at shooting him down and keeping him from going off the tracks too often. Everyone at Tara (the massive undercover house where Enjolras and Grantaire and pretty much all of their earthly friends call home) has, at one point or another, advised the Bureau to just let Grantaire go on all of Enjolras’ cases, and after not listening to them _once_ (Enjolras went alone to a cartel rendezvous and got close to killing everyone in the room before Grantaire finally snapped _fuck orders_ and went in after him), the Bureau seemed to agree with Tara. Grantaire has been going with Enjolras on all of his cases ever since.

They make a good team, albeit a queer one. When they’re working, it’s like they read each other’s thoughts. A single glance or twitch or sigh can alert the other to any slight change in what’s going on. Off the job is an entirely different story. The only time they’re not arguing is when they’re not speaking, and Grantaire is never sure if he’s kind of maybe Enjolras’ friend or if Enjolras genuinely hates his guts.

It doesn’t really matter either way because Grantaire is so hopelessly, desperately, fucked-up in love with this asshole that Enjolras could think of Grantaire with relative fondness or with absolute loathing and Grantaire would still kind of want to shoot himself in the face at pretty much every given moment.

Although, at this rate, Grantaire won’t need to, because he’ll shoot Enjolras first.

Did he mention that Enjolras is _fucking terrible at taking direction?_

Grantaire is way past the clenching beginnings of panic and starting to seriously wonder how long it would take him to track down a pretty golden boy who may or may not being lying dead at the bottom of the East River right now when Enjolras finally answers his phone.

“What?” Enjolras snaps on the other end of the line by way of greeting — like he _hasn’t_ been suspiciously MIA for the last forty-seven minutes when he was _supposed_ to be on a food run that should have taken a maximum of twelve — and Grantaire wants to rip his head off.

“Where the _fuck_ are you?” he spits out.

“I’m getting food.” The amount of disdain Enjolras manages to pack into three words is impressive even for him.

“No, uh uh,” Grantaire shoots back, pacing around the little apartment they’ve rented for this case with one hand buried in his hair. “It does _not_ take almost an hour to get food in this city, what thehell are you doing out there that has taken _forty-five minutes?_ ”

Enjolras makes an annoyed huffing sound over the phone. “I’m on my way back, can it wait until then?”

“No.”

“Grantaire, I will be there in ten minutes,” Enjolras says snappishly. “I’m neither dead nor in danger, so I will explain when I get there.”

Grantaire knows better than to try to respond. Enjolras has already hung up.

This is how Enjolras works. He’s pretty much the biggest narcissist Grantaire has ever had the misfortune of knowing, he thinks he can just _do whatever the fuck he likes_ without informing his kind-of partner who is, let’s be honest, primarily here to keep Enjolras alive, but _whatever_ it’s not like that means he should be kept in the loop or anything.

But there’s no reasoning with Enjolras ever, and Grantaire is firmly aware of this. And now at least he’s been assured that Enjolras has not been shot in the face in the past hour, so he digs through his bag until he finds his flask and a pack of cigarettes and sets out to be as annoying as possible for when Enjolras gets home.

The exasperated look Enjolras gives him the second he walks through the door exactly ten minutes later tells Grantaire how successful he is.

“Do you have to do that inside?” he snaps, waving away the cloud of smoke Grantaire blows in his direction with one hand while dropping a bag full of take-out onto the coffee table with another.

Grantaire takes a slow drag and lets his answer come back with another gust of smoke. “Yes.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything. He fishes into the bag he brought in and hands a styrofoam container to Grantaire. “At least open a window,” he quips.

“Where were you?” Grantaire retorts as Enjolras goes back for his own food.

Cutting his eyes back to Grantaire, Enjolras sighs. “I had a meeting with Vasilyev,” he admits grudgingly.

That effectively has Grantaire on his feet. “You what?!” He takes a few steps toward Enjolras, one hand out like he’s going to reach out and grab him — maybe to check if he’s all right, though at this point Grantaire isn’t really thinking at all — before he realizes what he’s doing and stops dead, dropping both arms.

But Enjolras either doesn’t notice or doesn’t think this is weird. “I’m fine,” he snaps. “It went well, we have a face-to-face with Kozlokov tonight.” The light in his eyes is fanatically triumphant, and Grantaire gets it, they’ve been trying to meet with Kozlokov since they arrived in New York six days ago, he’s one step down from the guy they came all the way out here to try to bust, so a face-to-face with him is a Big Fucking Deal. Still, it’s a Big Fucking Deal that Grantaire _really_ should have been there for.

And Enjolras keeps _doing_ this lately — secret meetings that he sneaks off to attend without Grantaire, keeping Grantaire out of the loop, not telling him about important deals until they’ve been made or lost. Grantaire would be worried that Enjolras was phasing him out if he didn’t know that Combeferre absolutely _is not_ going to let that happen.

Although, if he’s honest with himself, he’s worried about it anyway.

“Why the fuck didn’t you bring me with you?” Grantaire demands, now just sort of standing in the middle of the room while he yells at Enjolras. His cigarette isn’t in his hand anymore, and he’s not sure what happened to it, but the apartment isn’t on fire at least, so he must have deposited it in the ashtray or _something_.

Enjolras doesn’t even look at him, he just calmly digs a fork out of one of the drawers in the little fake kitchen nook thing and starts eating as he replies simply, “You weren’t necessary.”

“I wasn’t _necessary?!_ ” Grantaire sputters. “When you get yourself fucking killed because you’ve gone charging into something without me, _then_ will I be necessary?”

Frowning like this is the dumbest question he’s ever been asked, Enjolras says, “No, because then I’ll be dead.”

It’s like Grantaire’s brain is on fire he’s so angry. “I’ll kill you.”

Enjolras snorts in absolute derision. “No, you won’t.”

And, well. No. He won’t.

He fucking _hates_ that.

“Eat your Thai food,” Enjolras orders, and Grantaire would almost think it sounded fond if he didn’t still want to rip that golden head from its shoulders. “I need to tell you about Kozlokov.”

Grantaire groans and rolls his eyes, but does open this food container and start eating from it (with his hands, just to keep annoying Enjolras) as he drops back down on the couch. “I _know_ about Kozlokov.”

“God, just shut the fuck up and let me brief you.”

Begrudgingly, Grantaire does. But he eats as messily and noisily as possible while he does.

“Kozlokov has agreed to meet us tonight at his club,” Enjolras begins, skillfully ignoring Grantaire’s snarfing noises. “We’re being introduced by Vasilyev, and Kozlokov will have his team with him, so be good and try to just keep your mouth shut, all right? We’re going in deep.”

Grantaire can’t resist the dry look he gives Enjolras through his eyelashes at that. _He_ is not the one who usually needs reigning in at these things. But Enjolras is on an infodump so Grantaire just keeps eating and lets him speak.

They’ve been on these guys for months, really. The Solntsevskaya Bratva presence in San Francisco has kept them occupied for a long time, and when they got the invitation to come to New York and meet some of the highest-ups they’ve ever encountered, they jumped.

Enjolras is outlining the plan for the night and saying something that Grantaire isn’t listening to about the layout of the club or something when Grantaire cuts in, “What does Kozlokov think we have for him, anyway?”

Enjolras pauses mid-diatribe and frowns, his expression stormy. “What do you think?” he asks darkly and _oh._

Solntsevskaya Bratva are known for many criminal activities, and Enjolras and Grantaire have been working on getting them on anything they can, obviously, but mostly they’re after one particular dark, dirty secret the syndicate carries: human trafficking.

Kozlokov thinks they have girls.

“Fuck,” Grantaire breathes.

“If you can’t play the part, you should stay home,” Enjolras says way too immediately.

Grantaire glowers at him. “I can play the fucking part,” he mutters. “Still. Fuck.”

To that, Enjolras actually just nods. It’s really hard to stay murderously angry at him when his face does that noble hero thing, but Grantaire makes a valiant effort.

Then Enjolras opens his mouth and hesitates, which only ever means bad news. Really bad news, apparently, since he won’t even look at Grantaire while he readies himself.

“There is one more thing,” he finally says and then shoots Grantaire a furtive glance almost like he’s _anxious_ or something.

“What?” Grantaire asks carefully.

“Vasilyev seemed to have some. . .interesting ideas about our relationship,” Enjolras replies, just as cautiously.

Grantaire frowns. “Ours?” he asks, and Enjolras nods. “Yours and mine?”

“Yes, Grantaire, _ours_ ,” Enjolras snaps impatiently.

“Interesting how?”

It takes another _long_ moment before Enjolras will reply.

Then: “He seems to think we’re lovers.”

Grantaire blinks. He doesn’t know if he wants to laugh loudly or just turn around and throw himself right out the window. As it is, he’s too stunned to do either.

“We never told him that,” he says quietly.

“I know that,” Enjolras replies sharply. “He got the impression on his own.”

Grantaire probably resembles a codfish right now but he can’t seem to close his mouth. “How?”

“Fuck if I know,” Enjolras says, and he sounds _really_ pissed off about this, which. Okay fine, Grantaire has always known Enjolras doesn’t feel the same way about him that he feels about Enjolras, but he didn’t realize he was _that_ repulsive that Enjolras is livid at being mistaken for his lover when Enjolras is currently undercover as a _human trafficker._ “I could be reading him wrong, anyway,” Enjolras is continuing now. “He didn’t say anything outright, he just seemed to be implying. . . . Anyway, you need to be prepared in case he introduces us as such.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire grunts, tossing his food container back on the table. He’s not hungry anymore. “Sure.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I am literally doing _nothing_ , Enjolras, what do you want from me?”

Enjolras groans in frustration and pushes himself off the wall he’s been leaning on, heading toward their suitcases (they never unpacked) and muttering, “I don’t have time for this.”

“Time for _what?_ ” Grantaire cries, because _fuck this_ he deliberately did _not_ start something over the way Enjolras clearly finds him a disgusting sexual prospect and now Enjolras is huffing around and acting like _he_ is the one being petulant. Deciding he actually doesn’t even want to hear Enjolras’ reply, Grantaire rocks back onto his feet and heads for the door of the apartment.

“Where are you going?” Enjolras demands of his retreating back.

“Out,” Grantaire snaps.

“That’s _very mature_ , Grantaire, thank you — ”

Grantaire slams the door on the trail of Enjolras’ voice.

 

He ends up in a tiny park somewhere where nannies are carting children and small dogs around and pointedly ignoring both him and each other. He’s shaking with rage and he left in such a rush he went without his sketchbook _and_ without his flask, so he does the only thing he can think to calm down.

He calls home.

Grantaire is angry enough that he doesn’t particularly care who he talks to, just that he can talk to _someone_ , so he finds himself dialing one of the landline numbers. It’s picked up within just a few rings and Jehan’s bright, lovely voice pops up in greeting.

“Hey, Jehan,” Grantaire says in return and Jehan’s voice lights up even more.

“Grantaire! How’s New York?”

“Smells like piss, mostly.”

Jehan chuckles a little. “Yeah, she’s wont to do that,” he agrees. “And how’s work?”

Grantaire sighs. “That’s actually going pretty well,” he admits reluctantly. He doesn’t go into more detail because he’s in public and, even though nannies aren’t the most likely informants to the Russian Mafiya, he really doesn’t want to risk this meeting with Kozlokov. Jehan doesn’t push, which is one of the best things about living with a bunch of undercovers — they get it.

“Okay, so the city is mostly the same,” Jehan says instead, “and work is going well. Which must mean, Enjolras. . . .” He trails off, but Grantaire snatches up the lead eagerly.

“He’s _impossibl_ e _!_ ” he shouts, making the nanny crossing his path jump (the kid doesn’t even blink).

Jehan makes a sympathetic noise and says, “Yeah,” and Grantaire is instantly, eternally grateful that Jehan answered the phone and not Combeferre or Joly or Feuilly or someone who would try to make him see Enjolras’ perspective. Jehan just _agrees_ with Grantaire, without even asking what Enjolras did to see if “impossible” is a fair accusation. Because the thing is, with Enjolras, “impossible” is _always_ fair, and Grantaire doesn’t give a shit what his perspective or motives are, he is _impossible._ Jehan is well aware of this, and Grantaire loves him for that.

“Can I ask what he did?” Jehan continues.

Grantaire makes a frustrated noise, and he’s totally being petulant, he knows this, but his crosses his arms and flops onto a park bench. “He’s just being an asshole,” he mumbles, not really willing to get into the whole thing.

“In general or to you specifically?” Jehan knows about how Grantaire feels. Everyone knows about how Grantaire feels, even Enjolras. It’s completely unfair, but it’s not like Grantaire has ever been very good at hiding it.

What he ends up saying in reply is, “He’s always an asshole to me.”

It’s been like this ever since they met. Enjolras was fresh out of the Academy, and Grantaire had been in the business for some years, but they got placed in Tara at about the same time. Right off the bat, Enjolras disdained Grantaire for his cynicism and his not-giving-a-fuck and right off the bat, Grantaire _really_ wanted to fuck Enjolras with his too-much-idealism and his gorgeous, perfect face. Not very much has changed since then except the realization that they work astoundingly well together on the job.

Jehan sighs on the other end of the line. “Sorry, R,” he says sympathetically. “I’ll beat him up when you guys get home if you like.”

That manages to make Grantaire laugh. Not because Jehan wouldn’t or couldn’t — quite the contrary, Jehan is one of the best fighters in the house — but the mental image of Enjolras coming home to his loving friends only to unexpectedly get the shit kicked out of him by someone a solid head shorter than him who loves him and would probably also give him an ice pack afterwards is pretty entertaining to Grantaire right now.

“I’ll keep you on standby,” he promises.

“Do you have work tonight?” Jehan asks.

“Mmhmm.”

“Well good luck and be safe, okay? And try not to kill Enjolras until you get home.”

Jehan is the best. Grantaire wants to buy Jehan a kitten.

“Fine, I’ll try,” he sighs dramatically, but he’s smiling a little now and he doesn’t feel _quite_ as homicidal anymore. Which is good. Since he carries a gun.

Jehan laughs softly. “I love you, R. Come home in one piece, okay?”

“Promise,” Grantaire says fondly. “Love you, too.”

He’s watching Enjolras stride across the tiny park toward him as he hangs up. Surprisingly, Enjolras doesn’t actually look that angry. No more so than usual, anyway, and Grantaire has moved past the petty desire to murder him thanks to Jehan, so he sits and watches Enjolras approach.

When he reaches Grantaire, Enjolras doesn’t yell. He doesn’t even scold. In an alarming act of calm, Enjolras just tosses Grantaire’s sketchbook onto his lap and then takes a seat next to him on the bench.

They sit there in silence for a few moments, Grantaire thumbing the corner of his sketchbook and frowning down at it, Enjolras watching the world go by around them.

Then, Enjolras takes a deep breath. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quietly, evenly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grantaire begins like an instant defense response, but Enjolras cuts him off.

“You _know_ I value you as a partner.” He’s looking at Grantaire now, but Grantaire can’t turn to meet his gaze. Something in his soul is _aching_ through this conversation, and he can’t. He can’t do this.

“We’re not partners,” Grantaire whispers to the sketchbook in his lap.

Enjolras doesn’t speak for so long that finally, Grantaire has to look up at him. He _still_ doesn’t look mad, and there’s something in his gaze that Grantaire is way too sober to even think about dealing with right now, so he drops his gaze to Enjolras’ shirt collar, which has yet to offend him.

After a long, screaming moment of this, Enjolras finally nods, sucking in air through his nose. “Okay,” he breathes, and that’s all he says before he’s standing again. “If you want to loaf around here some more, go ahead. We’re leaving for Kozlokov’s club at ten-thirty, be back by then.”

And then he’s gone, and Grantaire hasn’t looked at him again.

 

Grantaire spends a few hours sketching because it’s all he can do right now. He stops by a liquor store, but if they’re working tonight, he can only really allow himself a mild buzz while he draws pictures of squirrels and children. Children are some of his favorite subjects, because they just openly _feel_ whatever’s in their hearts, and Grantaire hasn’t known an adult who does that for a long time.

He certainly can’t.

It’s about half after eight when he finally drags himself back to the apartment, and Enjolras barely looks at him when he enters, but there does seem to be some relief there. He’s probably just glad that Grantaire won’t be making them late tonight.

“Are you hungry?” he asks casually while scribbling something at the bottom of one of the pages in Kozlokov’s file.

Grantaire shrugs. “I could eat,” he answers and Enjolras nods.

“We’ll get take out or something,” he says, still not paying any attention to Grantaire, who’s depositing his sketchbook on the coffee table and looking around for his flask to refill it with whatever he bought earlier. “Probably shouldn’t go out to eat tonight since we’ve got Kozlokov later.”

Surely that makes sense in Enjolras’ head even if it doesn’t make sense to the rest of the universe, so Grantaire elects not to question it. He does, however, question something else. “You didn’t eat yet?”

That makes Enjolras finally look up at him, a question in his face.

“I was gone for hours, you could have had six dinners by now,” he explains.

Dropping his gaze back down to the folder, Enjolras shrugs. “I was working.”

Oh, he was _working_. Of _course_.

Closing the folder and tossing it aside finally, Enjolras reaches out and starts flipping through Grantaire’s sketchbook while Grantaire digs through his bag for clean clothes. They’ve long travelled past the normal reaches of privacy for reasonable human beings, and Grantaire is too used to Enjolras looking at his crappy art to care.

“I like them,” Enjolras says eventually, like a kind of peace offering. “These ones especially.”

He’s holding the book open to the page where Grantaire had been doing a study on a screaming toddler who was clearly angry at the world for making her sit out in the chill while her nanny walked her around in a pram. She’d been a gorgeous little child, and _so_ upset that Grantaire was fascinated and had drawn her five or six times over the page.

“Thanks,” Grantaire answers a little awkwardly. Enjolras often expresses his like for Grantaire’s art when he’s in a decent mood, but Grantaire can’t ever feel like it’s much more than trying to appease him. He feels a little condescended to, even if Enjolras means well. “I’m gonna go take a shower,” he says. “Wash the park out of my hair.”

“What, were you rolling around in it?” Enjolras asks, returning the sketchbook to the coffee table with a slap and glowering at Grantaire — which is a super weird response to ‘I’m going to take a shower.’

“Art, my dear,” is Grantaire’s response before he shuffles off to the apartment’s bathroom.

Enjolras is intense, Grantaire has always known this. And Enjolras is confusing. And Enjolras is _infuriating_. And Enjolras is so fucking _hot_ all the _fucking time_ that Grantaire wants to pluck his own eyeballs out to get rid of the sight of him. Only then he’d just hear his gorgeous voice and smell his perfect scent and, on the occasion that Enjolras wants to pull him around, feel his wonderful fingers around his wrist, his arm, very occasionally his neck. The thought makes him shudder under the stream of hot water, pouring over his head.

No, the only real way to get out of this godawful hole he’s dug himself is to fuck him or die. And Grantaire is never going to fuck Enjolras. He will, however, eventually die.

That’s something to look forward to, at least, he thinks dryly.

Grantaire considers jerking off while he’s in here, if only to release some of the tension that’s got him almost doubled over, leaning against the shower wall. He considers doing it loudly, so Enjolras will hear and be further antagonized. He considers all of this, but none of it will actually help anything, and he knows that. Jerking off with the image of Enjolras in his head is nothing foreign to Grantaire, and it never does anything but make this so, so much worse.

So for once in his whole, fucked-up existence, he makes a decent decision and doesn’t do it. He scrubs himself down, trying to get all the filth and grime and despair out of his pores, but he can only do so much and he can never do enough. When he shuts the water off, he still feels dirty.

Enjolras is on the phone when Grantaire comes out of the bathroom, dressed and toweling at his dripping hair.

“Yeah, I know,” Enjolras says into the phone, giving Grantaire another disdainful look (what, does he disapprove of _cleanliness_ now?) and turning away while motioning at the coffee table.

There’s a fresh pizza on it which means he must have gone out or ordered food while Grantaire was trying not to masturbate in the shower, so Grantaire sits down to eat and wait for Enjolras to get off the phone.

“Yes, I’m aware,” Enjolras says, but he doesn’t sound too snappish. He must be talking to someone he likes. “Okay, fine. What? Yeah, he knows.” ‘He’ is probably either Grantaire or Kozlokov, but Grantaire hasn’t been eavesdropping on enough of the conversation to know which. “I got it. Will do.” And then Enjolras hangs up without a glimpse of a farewell.

“Why don’t you ever _say goodbye_ like a fucking _normal person_?” Grantaire asks through a mouthful of pizza.

Enjolras looks at him, frowning slightly. It’s pretty clear he’s just aching to start an argument, but instead he says, “There is no point to me saying goodbye to you if I’m just going to see you again in half an hour.”

“Yeah, but you’re not going to see. . .Combeferre?” Grantaire hazards a guess.

“Lamarque.” Enjolras’ case manager. Enjolras looks highly unimpressed with Grantaire right now. As per usual, then.

“Lamarque,” Grantaire concedes. “You’re _really_ not gonna see him in a half an hour.”

Enjolras shrugs. “I don’t enjoy saying goodbye,” he says like that’s the end of it, like that isn’t a weird fucking quirk worthy of being mocked for a while. Then he gets a weird look on his face and says, “You smell better.”

The expression Grantaire gives him at that is caught somewhere between confused, offended, and highly concerned for Enjolras’ sanity. “Thank you?” he asks. “How did I smell before?”

Which was apparently the _very wrong_ thing to say because Enjolras looks suddenly _livid_ for no good reason whatsoever and immediately turns and walks over to the other side of the apartment. Which is really kind of funny, actually, because they rented a studio and Enjolras can’t actually go anywhere. He ends up just marching over to the bed and sitting on it in a huff.

“You’re really fucking weird,” Grantaire tells him.

Enjolras glares back.

 

By the time Enjolras is getting dressed to leave for Kozlokov’s club, Grantaire is just sitting on the couch, compulsively disassembling and reassembling his gun. Enjolras comes out of the bathroom during this and watches him silently for a moment, the expression on his face impassive. Finally, as Grantaire goes to take it all apart again, he reaches down and lays his hand over Grantaire’s.

Grantaire’s eyes snap up to meet his, but Enjolras’ expression is still so guarded he can’t read him at all.

“It’s time to go,” he says softly, and without another word, or even looking back at Grantaire, he heads out the door.

Grantaire puts his gun away where it won’t be seen and follows.

Kozlokov’s club is one of those trendy, fancy, rich clubs that you need a password and a membership to get inside, or else an invite from someone who does. Vasilyev meets them outside and provides them with said invite.

They’ve been working with Vasilyev for nine months in California. He’s the reason they got invited to New York in the first place, and he’s the reason they’re meeting Kozlokov. To be honest, if he wasn’t involved in such horrendous criminal activity, Grantaire might kind of want to be bros with him. He’s a pretty cool guy aside from the being a terrible person thing.

But he greets Enjolras and Grantaire like old friends (which, Grantaire supposes, they kind of are to him), hugging them both and talking excitedly about Kozlokov and the “business” they’re going to get from him.

“Are you nervous?” he asks Enjolras, his accent even heavier than Grantaire remembers.

Enjolras smiles and shakes his head, being the charming asshole he is. “I’m chomping at the bit for this, friend,” he says, and he actually sounds excited. He is excellent at his job, really. “Grantaire’s a little jittery,” he adds because he’s an _asshole_.

But Vasilyev just turns his grin on Grantaire instead. It’s not at all unusual for him to address Enjolras primarily when they’re doing business — no one has ever been confused as to who leads this team. Although, when they’re spending time with Vasilyev outside of “work” (although any time spent with Vasilyev actually is part of the job for them), he addresses Grantaire like a buddy, so when Vasilyev claps Grantaire on the shoulder reassuringly, it’s not a surprise. “Do not worry, my friend,” he says delightedly. “Kozlokov will love you. Your boy will make this deal.”

And. Oh. That’s what Enjolras was picking up on. _Your boy_.

That’s a little weird.

There’s barely any time to ruminate on it, though, as suddenly Vasilyev is leading them into the club and they’re _on_ now, Grantaire can practically feel the alignment between him and Enjolras clicking into place. This is what they do well. There’s a brief moment of uncertainty as the bouncer wants to check them for weapons, but Vasilyev apparently trusts them because he waves the bouncer off cheerfully and then they’re inside.

The club is loud, expectedly, and dimly lit, and there are well-dressed, sweaty bodies grinding against each other on the dance floor, and drugs being discreetly passed from one hand to the next, but there is also a bar, and that gives Grantaire some amount of hope.

Enjolras barely looks at him as he makes a beeline for said bar. He won’t (can’t) get drunk when he’s on a job like this, but they hardly ever walk into their undercover business deals side by side. They’ve found it’s intimidating. Better if Grantaire (the one who always carries a gun anyway — Enjolras walked in here unarmed) hangs back for a while. He makes sure his place at the bar has a perfect sightline to Enjolras, then orders a drink and settles in for the night.

Only it’s just a few minutes of watching Enjolras shake hands with someone Grantaire can’t see very well and then sit down to chat before Vasilyev is heading purposefully back toward the bar and Grantaire.

When he’s at Grantaire’s elbow, he says, “Your boy needs you, and Kozlokov wants to meet you.”

This isn’t the plan, and Vasilyev’s hand is around Grantaire’s arm, pulling him forward, but this _isn’t_ what’s supposed to happen, this is _wrong_ , but then Grantaire looks up and sees Enjolras watching him, and Enjolras looks _worried_. He does need Grantaire. Every whirling panicky thought settles in Grantaire’s mind and he focuses on Enjolras and lets Vasilyev pull him forward.

Grantaire is so focused on Enjolras that he doesn’t even look at the people around him, and the weird thing about this is that Enjolras is staring _back_ at him, unrelenting. Something is definitely wrong.

And then Enjolras hand comes out as Grantaire reaches him and rests on the small of Grantaire’s back and _no_. No, this is not what they do. But Enjolras is there, touching him and leaning forward to _press his lips against Grantaire’s cheek_ and oh fuck. _Fuck_. There is nothing about this that’s okay. There’s a kind of static white noise inside Grantaire’s head at just the fucking contact of Enjolras’ _mouth_ on his skin, and then comes the realization of what’s happening: Kozlokov thinks they’re lovers after all, and Enjolras has deemed it safer to play the part than try to contradict him.

_Fuck_.

It’s a very good thing Grantaire has become an expert at hiding his true emotions on a job because the screaming panic inside him only manifests as a mild surprise on his face, and he can easily pass that off as being unexpectedly introduced to someone he doesn’t know. And he should probably touch Enjolras in return somehow, squeeze his arm or _something_ , but he can’t physically bring himself to do it, so he just turns to Kozlokov to be introduced.

Kozlokov is _massive_ , which is the first thing Grantaire notices about anything other than the way Enjolras’ hand is still warm against his back. He’s about ten feet tall and almost as broad, but other than that he looks like a regular guy. Just a normal-looking giant in a suit, really. He holds out one gigantic hand to shake Grantaire’s and Grantaire vaguely hears Enjolras saying his name in introduction.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” Kozlokov says diplomatically. “Please, sit.”

Enjolras does, pulling Grantaire down with him. And he doesn’t put his arm around Grantaire or anything like that, he doesn’t rest a hand on his knee, but he’s _there_ and their arms are almost touching, they’re sharing body heat. Kozlokov smiles.

A much smaller man, thin and angular, who’s sitting next to Kozlokov, leans forward suddenly. “You are in the business as well?” he asks Grantaire in a voice that sounds more like an interrogation than a question.

Grantaire blinks and nods, but he doesn’t have a chance to do anything more than open his mouth to answer before Kozlokov laughs.

“Calm, Belevich,” he says jovially, then turns back to Enjolras. “You’ll have to forgive him, he is careful.”

Enjolras smiles in that way that charms absolutely everyone and shakes his head. “That probably makes him smarter than than my partner and I, though, doesn’t it?”

Kozlokov laughs again, louder this time. “This is what he tells me!”

Grantaire is supremely grateful for that apparent natural inclination people have to work with Enjolras instead of with him, because he can only focus about half of his attention on this conversation. The other half is solidly divided between his proximity to Enjolras and the faint trace of warmth left on his face from the press of Enjolras’ fucking lips, and trying to keep his face from betraying any of this. There’s no way he’d be able to make a solid business deal like this, and that’s what they need here. A solid deal, so they can bust this guy. Grantaire tries so hard to focus.

Thing is, the job has never meant to him what it means to Enjolras and his ability to focus on anything _except_ Enjolras right now is completely shot to hell.

“So,” Kozlokov is saying as Grantaire struggles to breathe normally, settling back into his seat, apparently quite at ease now, “my friend Vasilyev says you may have something for me.”

Enjolras nods. “We have a few resources, yes.”

“They are the best I have worked with, начальник,” Vasilyev says proudly.

Great, Grantaire thinks. They make excellent criminals, how lovely.

But Kozlokov nods thoughtfully. “Then let us drink and work,” he says. “I shall have Belevich bring you drinks —”

“That’s all right, we’ll get them,” Enjolras interrupts boldly, standing up and pulling Grantaire to his feet, too. “My friend here is rather picky about his alcohol.”

It’s stretch, and Grantaire is fully aware Enjolras is just doing this so they can have half a minute to talk, but Kozlokov just laughs again because Enjolras may be an asshole, but he’s an asshole who makes everyone around him believe in him.

So Grantaire follows Enjolras like a lovesick puppy up to the bar and waits for Enjolras to turn around.

“Sorry,” Enjolras mutters softly when he does, which takes Grantaire completely by surprise. Enjolras doesn’t really apologize. Ever. Not out loud, at least. But he is now and he’s looking at Grantaire like he means it. “Kozlokov liked the idea that two lovers were also business partners, and the way the conversation was going, I felt like if I tried to backpedal and explain that we’re not, it would risk our cover.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Grantaire replies lightly. It’s not, it’s really really not, but hell if he’s going to admit that. At least he can lie well. “It’s the job.”

He feels like Enjolras should be happy with that answer, but the look he’s fixed with suddenly is another one of those unreadable ones and not knowing what Enjolras is thinking when he keeps _looking_ at Grantaire like that is driving Grantaire crazy, so he turns away.

“Yeah, can I get another gin, please?” he asks the bartender, then completely freezes when Enjolras’ hand comes to rest on his arm. _No, no, no._

“Grantaire, please,” Enjolras whispers, and the look in his eyes is too much, Grantaire can’t even meet his gaze.

“I’m not getting drunk,” he promises, taking the proffered gin from the bartender and turning away from Enjolras. He has no idea if that’s what Enjolras meant by _please_ but he can’t think of anything else that doesn’t make him want to just lie down and die, so he turns away.

But Enjolras just follows him. “Grantaire —”

_Danger_. “Wait, shut up.” Grantaire has stopped short, throwing out his arm to stop Enjolras too. Something is wrong, something is bad, he can feel it. Every muscle in Enjolras’ body tenses at Grantaire’s change and he looks around intently.

Neither of them speak, they read each other too well to need to right now. Grantaire’s arm is blocking Enjolras from going anywhere, but he manages to make it look more like a casual embrace than a cover. Something is off, but Grantaire doesn’t quite know what. He glances around them, trying to find it, but there’s nothing he can see. It’s just a feeling, really, but it’s intense, and Grantaire has a thing about trusting his instincts. Every time he doesn’t, something terrible happens.

“Is it immediate?” Enjolras mutters, and Grantaire knows he means the threat, whatever it is.

Almost imperceptibly, Grantaire shakes his head. Enjolras nods in return and tugs lightly on Grantaire’s arm, telling him to follow back to Kozlokov.

It only takes a moment, but suddenly Grantaire catches the flash of metal that looks like a gun, and there’s a hand that grabs for Enjolras, and there’s no way Grantaire can get to his gun in time, so he just throws himself around Enjolras to protect him.

And then there’s a crash and a spasm of pain in his head and Enjolras shouting his name.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Grantaire breathes, trying to get his bearings. He’s lying on the floor, blinking, and Enjolras’ face swims into view.

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asks him, but Grantaire doesn’t have a chance to push through the muddle of his brain to answer before Enjolras is turning to someone else. “I’m not sure, I think he tripped.” This doesn’t make any sense, but Grantaire is now belatedly aware that Enjolras’ hands are on him, both of them, one on his arm, one on his face, and he’s not entirely sure how breathing works anymore.

Someone says something about picking things up another time, and Enjolras thanks them and then says something reassuring about how he “can handle it” and then arms are under Grantaire’s arms, hoisting him up, and Enjolras is practically carrying Grantaire out of the club.

The shock of cold, wet air manages to clear Grantaire’s mind enough that he tries to push away from Enjolras, who is very much supporting him toward the curb.

“Where are we going?” he asks, and is very proud of himself for only slurring a little bit.

“The hospital,” Enjolras snaps back at him, clearly annoyed. “You slammed your head against the bar, you’re probably concussed.”

“I’m not concussed.” He isn’t. He’s been concussed before, he knows what it’s like, and it’s not this. “Take me back inside, we need to finish the job.”

“We’re finishing the fucking job later,” Enjolras retorts sharply, his grip iron-tight on Grantaire’s shirt as he raises his other hand to call a cab. “Right now, we’re going to the hospital.”

With that marble-etched masterpiece of a face, Grantaire doubts that Enjolras has ever had to wait for a cab in his life. Sure enough, it’s moments before one pulls off to the side for them. But Grantaire is strong, stronger than Enjolras likes to remember, and wrenches away from Enjolras’ grip, staggering backward a little as he says as firmly and clearly as he can, “You’re not taking me to the hospital. You’re taking me back inside, or you’re taking me home.”

He expects to have to fight about it, and he half expects to lose, but Enjolras is just staring at him. After a moment, he takes a step forward and reaches out to hold Grantaire steady by his shoulder, peering at his eyes. He’s _really close_ and his breath smells of mint like toothpaste and a little of alcohol and oh dear Christ he’s really hot why is he so _close?_

Enjolras narrows his eyes. “You’re going to pitch a fit if I try to take you to the hospital aren’t you?” he asks.

Grantaire nods, but then that makes his head spin so he stops. Enjolras sighs deeply.

“Fine,” he says, giving up surprisingly easily, “get in the goddamn cab, we’re going home,” and then just guides Grantaire roughly towards the car.

Enjolras is really fucking irritated about this, which. Okay, fair enough. Grantaire may have just given himself a concussion for no good reason. Not that there’s ever a good reason to get a concussion, but — well, maybe there is, he’s never thought about it before and _god_ his head hurts. He gets in the cab just fine, though, and leans heavy against the window as Enjolras gives the driver their apartment address, gingerly making sure he doesn’t put weight on the side of his head that got clonked by the bar. Enjolras keeps shooting angry glances at him like he wants to pick a fight, but maybe he doesn’t want to do it if Grantaire is about to pass out or something. Grantaire is definitely not concussed. He’s not.

The apartment is farther away than Grantaire remembers and it takes a really long time to get there. Especially since every few minutes, Enjolras snaps at him not to fall asleep, which he’s not even doing, he’s just watching the city go by out the window. He’s not sleeping, but whatever. This is all Enjolras’ fault anyway, if he hadn’t gone along with the goddamn _lovers_ thing and thrown Grantaire so far off, this never would have happened.

Probably.

Grantaire is lost to this reverie when all at once they’ve arrived and Enjolras has disappeared from beside Grantaire to open his door and pull him out of the cab.

“I can _walk_ ,” Grantaire huffs, although that might not be entirely true.

“Shut up,” Enjolras shoots back, hooking his arm under Grantaire’s armpits again.

Impressively, Enjolras manages to get them both inside without much hassle. He quickly deposits Grantaire on the sofa, stepping away like he’d really rather not be so close, and pulls his phone out of his pocket.

“If you’re calling a doctor, I’m going to take out my gun and shoot that phone out of your hand,” Grantaire threatens.

Enjolras throws him a dirty look, then rolls his eyes. “I’m not calling a doctor, although I probably should.”

“I’m not concussed!”

“I’m calling Valjean.”

Oh.

Valjean is Grantaire’s case manager — another thing the Bureau learned quickly with him and Enjolras: even though they work almost all the same cases, having them report to the same person was a _terrible_ idea. And Grantaire and Lamarque just _did not_ see eye to eye, even though Enjolras practically hero-worships the guy, so Grantaire had been switched, and Valjean had requested him.

Grantaire actually kind of loves Valjean, though. He’s a genuinely decent guy, and Grantaire really hasn’t met too many of those outside of the group in Tara. He always listens to what Grantaire has to say. He’s even had Grantaire over for dinner a few times when Grantaire was in a really bad way, and introduced him to his daughter, Cosette, a young woman Grantaire now considers one of his good friends. Valjean is good people. Enjolras can call Valjean if he wants to.

“Oh, thank god,” Enjolras breathes when Valjean apparently answers the phone, and then turns away, chattering annoyingly about what happened, skewing it entirely to sound like _Grantaire_ did something stupid instead of the other way around. So Grantaire just stops listening, instead picking at the fabric of the couch he’s been placed on, thinking about couch fabric patterns and why there are so many nonsensical crescent shapes on all of them, when a phone is shoved into his hand with a brusque, “He wants to talk to you.”

“Yeah?” Grantaire asks into the phone as we watches Enjolras pace away from him.

“Hi, Grantaire,” Valjean’s warm, enveloping voice greets him.  “Can you please tell me what happened? Enjolras was unclear.”

“Enjolras was being an idiot,” Grantaire answers immediately, grinning cheekily at the affronted look Enjolras gives him at that.

“Grantaire,” Valjean says patiently, “that’s how _all_ of your case stories start.”

“He was!”

“He thinks you’re concussed?”

“I’m not concussed!”

“How can you tell?”

Grantaire blinks, considering this. He’s been a little dizzy, yeah, and not entirely steady on his feet or completely aware of his surroundings, but he doesn’t show any other symptoms. He has no light sensitivity, his ears are clear of ringing, he’s not nauseated or confused, he’s been arguing with Enjolras still, and he’s _way_ too aware of everything that stupid idiot of a man does.

“For one thing,” he ends up answering, “I am _way_ too lucid.”

Valjean chuckles over the phone. “You are the only person I’ve ever known who believes a person can be _too_ lucid,” he says with amusement.

That’s actually true.

“I’m fine,” Grantaire insists wearily.

“You’re not,” Enjolras snaps from across the room.

Grantaire looks up to glare back at him. “I don’t believe I was talking to _you_ ,” he hisses.

Valjean clears his throat to bring Grantaire’s attention back to him. “I trust you,” he says simply, which makes Grantaire almost wince at the sincerity in his voice. “Please give the phone back to Enjolras, I’ll ask him to calm down.”

Silently, Grantaire sticks the phone out to Enjolras, who looks livid at he crosses the room and snatches it out of Grantaire’s hand.

“Yes?” he says, then just listens for a while. Which is super rare, Enjolras is _constantly_ talking, so Grantaire revels in it for a while. Then, finally, he sighs sharply. “Fine,” he says, “I will.”

And then he hangs up without saying goodbye. Grantaire rolls his eyes.

Enjolras is staring at him with that look again, and there’s no fucking way Grantaire is dealing with this right now, so he pushes himself up off the couch and is highly grateful when he finds he can support his own weight without falling over.

“Well, this has been fun,” he deadpans to the disapproving quirk of Enjolras’ eyebrows, “but I’m going to bed.”

“No,” Enjolras replies sharply, which makes Grantaire’s eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline.

“ _No?_ ”

“You can’t sleep, you might be —”

“ _I am not concussed!_ ” Grantaire shrieks. “I thought Valjean told you to calm the fuck down, why are you being an ass?”

Enjolras makes a kind of choked, sputtering noise before Grantaire cuts him off.

“I’m fine, I’m tired, my head is sore,” he says firmly. “I’m going to sleep. Turn the fucking light off this time, Combeferre is going to kill us if we spend a million dollars on electricity because you keep falling asleep while you work.”

Enjolras doesn’t say anything for a while, he just watches Grantaire climb into the stupid bed they have to fucking _share goddamn it_ which means Grantaire gets _no_ sleep because he’s just trying not to shake apart at the seams at the thought of how near and how very untouchable Enjolras always is, the asshole.

“You’re really fucking irritating,” Enjolras finally says, sounding resigned for some reason.

Grantaire scoffs, shoving all of his everything down where it can’t be seen. “I am a gift!” he cries showily.

Enjolras doesn’t respond. Grantaire rolls over so he doesn’t have to look at him. He’s _so_ fucked and this isn’t fair.

He tries not to notice when Enjolras turns off the light and climbs into bed fifteen minutes later.

He fails.


	2. Chapter 2

Enjolras doesn’t sleep at all. He can’t, not when he’s still worried that Grantaire might be concussed and by letting him sleep, Enjolras may have just allowed him to fall into a coma. He sits in the bed they share and he stays up and watches Grantaire all night because he can’t sleep, not now.

And okay, Enjolras isn’t stupid, he’s been painfully aware of the absurd crush he’s had on his not-partner for ages now, but it’s manageable. It’s not _that_ bad.

At least that’s what he tells himself, but then he goes and does something really ridiculous and idiotic like _renting an apartment with one bed_. And yeah, he told Grantaire they didn’t have other options, but they absolutely did, Enjolras just saw that he was being given the opportunity to sleep next to Grantaire and something in his brain short-circuited and he’d just taken it. He hadn’t even thought about how actually terrible it was going to be, sleeping next to him when he can’t _touch_ him, not ever. Because even though Grantaire clearly feels something at least similar to what Enjolras feels, the two of them together would be _terrible_ — like, cities burning to the ground terrible. And whatever Grantaire feels is undeniably unhealthy and Enjolras doesn’t. . .want that.

But here he is, sitting up all night because this guy he works with and argues with and has a massive crush on might have a concussion and might not wake up. At least the one bed thing makes it easier to keep watch over him.

That was actually the other big draw of one bed between the two of them — it makes it easier to keep Grantaire safe. Which is one more thing that Enjolras’ brain has been specifically and actively ignoring: that about 80% of his energy every day is spent on making sure that Grantaire is _safe_.

The other 20% is usually focused on _not_ putting his hands and mouth all over Grantaire. Grantaire is a distraction and liability and a _terrible fucking idea_.

Still.

Sometimes Enjolras can’t help but imagine what it would be like — touching Grantaire, kissing him, being allowed to taste him anywhere, everywhere, even just for one night. He thinks Grantaire would be all right with it, except sometimes they get close, and Grantaire just shuts down. Like last night at the bar. It wasn’t ideal, obviously, but Enjolras tried to get close to Grantaire and he _shut down_. So maybe he doesn’t want this at all. Maybe whatever he feels toward Enjolras is _so_ unhealthy that he can’t even — 

Enjolras huffs and shakes his head in an attempt to clear it. None of this makes any difference, anyway, because nothing can happen. It’s all just vivid imagery.

And yet Enjolras doesn’t sleep. Not once. Halfway through the night, he gets out of bed and tries to work on his computer, but ends up writing a long list of what he can do if Grantaire doesn’t wake up in the morning, how he can fix it. To be frank, he’s not sure if he’s even breathing normally until the sun has long risen and Grantaire groans, rousing and putting his hand to his head.

Enjolras promptly deletes the list.

“What the fuck happened?” Grantaire asks croakily, pushing himself up, one hand still on his head.

A jolt of something fear-like trembles through Enjolras’ bones and he snaps, “If you can’t remember last —”

“Cool it, bright eyes, I can remember it,” Grantaire moans, tilting forward until his forehead hits his knees. “I was hoping you’d just beat me over the head in my sleep and that’s why my head feels cracked open.”

“No, that was your doing,” Enjolras replies, dropping his eyes to his computer again and pretending to type something. Because it is entirely inappropriate how quickly he jumped to panic there.

Grantaire groans and gingerly lies back down. “I’m not getting out of bed,” he mumbles.

“You’re getting out of bed or I’m carrying you to the hospital,” Enjolras retorts. This is fucking _ridiculous_ , they should have gone to the hospital _yesterday_. But Enjolras can’t force Grantaire to do something he’s dead-set against, and apparently he’s still against going to get checked out because Grantaire makes an irritated noise and then rolls off the bed.

“I’m taking a shower,” he mutters angrily, brushing past Enjolras like it’s Enjolras’ fault his head is aching.

Which. Actually, maybe it is.

While Grantaire is undoubtably having a really nice, relaxing shower, Enjolras just sits there, motionlessly, on the couch, listening to the water run and trying not to think about how close he came to maybe losing his friend, trying not to think about how idiotic he is for letting this happen, tries _not to fucking think_ about Grantaire’s wet, naked body, only a few goddamn feet away from him on the other side of the door.

It feels like a really long fucking shower while he’s doing all this not-thinking, but eventually Grantaire emerges, completely dressed thank god (the time he walked out of there with nothing but a towel because he’d forgotten to take clothes in with him had nearly broken Enjolras’ brain), but infuriatingly wet and flushed and cute.

“Sit down,” Enjolras tells him, his voice coming out angrier than he means. He always seems to come across angry when he’s feeling especially pulled to Grantaire. “We need to talk about last night.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Why?” he moans, but he sits on the other side of the couch. He smells amazing, just like yesterday, he must be using the soaps that came with the rental, and Enjolras is overwhelmed by it, so he stands and crosses to the bed to sit there instead.

Grantaire gives him a look that seems confused, but is definitely hiding some hurt, and Enjolras feels like punching himself in the head.

“So?” Grantaire asks, dropping his gaze like he doesn’t want to look at Enjolras anymore.

“Last night,” Enjolras begins, making an effort to sound less angry, more agreeable. “From where I was, it looked like you felt like something was wrong, judged it to be a distant — or at least not immediate — threat, and then threw yourself headfirst into the bar. What really happened?”

“I don’t know,” Grantaire sighs, still looking at the carpet instead of Enjolras. “Someone had a gun, they were going for you.”

Enjolras blinks, a little stunned. That was not, for whatever reason, what he was expecting. Grantaire had been so _mad_ at him last night, but he’d — what? Jumped in front of a gun for him?

“So you —?” Enjolras begins, but he can’t finish.

Grantaire just rolls his eyes and shrugs.

“Were you trying to get me out of the way,” Enjolras asks finally, “or were you prepared to take a bullet for me?”

Suddenly standing, Grantaire makes a gruff sound and finally looks Enjolras dead in the eye. “I am always prepared to take a bullet for you, asshole,” he said angrily. “Twenty-four seven. In my sleep, I’m ready to dive in front of you so you won’t get shot. Okay? It’s my job. I’m your fucking body guard. I’m going out.”

That last phrase is said in a huff while he grabs his coat and heads for the door.

“No one asked you to be my body guard,” Enjolras shouts, a lot louder than he’d meant to, but he’s in some shock. He had no idea.

Grantaire swings around and glares at him. “No?”

“No. No!” Enjolras yells again. “You’re my partner. Or, sorry, you’re not, according to you.”

“That’s funny, you’re still using that word,” Grantaire scoffs, his volume level reaching a peak with Enjolras’. “Because I don’t remember you consulting me about _anything_ since we’ve come to this godforsaken city. Not the stupid apartment, not the food, not the meeting you took yesterday _without me!_ ”

“You were unnecessary!”

“I’M ALWAYS FUCKING NECESSARY!” Grantaire bellows, and if Combeferre hadn’t rented out the four surrounding apartments just in case of something like this, Enjolras would be worried about cops being called on them now. “I’M THE ONE WHO KEEPS YOU ALIVE!”

“That’s not how it’s supposed to be!” Enjolras yells back. “We’re supposed to work together!”

“THEN LET ME WORK!” Grantaire screams.

“Oh my _god_ , I AM LETTING YOU WORK!” Enjolras growls. “We don’t need to take _every_ meeting together, okay?! You don’t have to throw yourself in front of a bullet to make a goddamn point!”

“THERE WAS NO BULLET!” Grantaire counters, shaking his hands in the air as though imagining seizing Enjolras by the shoulders and flinging him around. “AND THAT’S NOT WHY I DID IT!”

“Then why _did_ you do it?!”

“BECAUSE, you _complete jackass_ , I DON’T WANT YOU TO DIE!”

The yelling stops.

Enjolras blinks. He feels something kinda fluttering inside him, and it’s weird. It’s the dumbest thing, because it’s not like he thought Grantaire _wanted_ him to die. It’s not like he even thought Grantaire was _indifferent_ to him dying. But he really didn’t think Grantaire was more okay with Grantaire getting shot than with Enjolras getting shot. He didn’t think his friend was willing to die _for_ him.

They’ve been just staring at each other for a while when Grantaire drops his gaze again.

“Look,” he says softly, almost defeated, “I’m going out for a while, okay? I’m gonna take a walk.”

“Grantaire —” He means to say something meaningful, something like ‘ _Thanks for being willing to die for me even though the situation didn’t actually warrant it,_ ’ which is a really stupid thing to say, especially in this moment, but Grantaire cuts him off.

“I won’t be gone long, and I’m fine to make the walk. My head just hurts, nothing else. Happy?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before he walks out and lets the door swing shut behind him.

So he doesn’t get to hear Enjolras respond: “No.”

 

This is basically the worst thing that could have happened, because something is shifting in Enjolras. He was so sure this was a crush, just a stupid, fleeting, physical crush. But Grantaire is really in this, he _really cares_ about Enjolras, and maybe not just in the super unhealthy, obsessive way Enjolras had always assumed. It’s starting to seem possible that Grantaire is truly, actually. . .

In love?

With Enjolras?

And Enjolras feels like he’s having trouble breathing, this wasn’t _supposed to happen_ he wasn’t supposed to _fall_ for his _partner_ , he has a fucking job to do. A fucking stupid important job to do. He saves lives, he takes really awful predatory people off the streets, he _carries a gun and shoots humans with it sometimes_ , he can’t be distracted by something as dumb as _love_.

Not that he’s in love with Grantaire.

Maybe.

This is terrible.

Realizing he’s been mindlessly pacing back and forth across the room, Enjolras forces himself to sit on the couch, and for just one moment, allows himself to think about Grantaire. But this time, instead of one passionate, frenzied, lustful night, his mind conjures up the image of sleepy smiles first thing in the morning. Of tousled black curls twisted around his fingers. Of gentle kisses and intertwined fingers. He imagines fights that start with yelling and end with kissing, with making up. Not with silence and tense awkwardness. It feels nice.

And then it’s done. He shuts it down. He can’t afford this. What if they tried to be something and it crashed and burned? He’d lose his partner. His work wouldn’t be as good, he’s not as good without Grantaire. And, if he’s honest with himself, he probably would get himself killed.

But the idea of losing Grantaire feels awful on its own. Worse, even, than the consequences of losing him, just. . . _losing_ him.

Hurting him.

Unbearable.

No. He’d rather have this Grantaire than none at all. He’d rather things stayed like this — awful as they are — then be destroyed.

And maybe this is why Grantaire has never, not once in all this time of feeling things for Enjolras, never made a move. Maybe he reached this conclusion long ago, and Enjolras is only catching up now.

He’s right, Enjolras thinks. Grantaire is right. It’s better this way.

It hurts like a motherfucker, but it’s better.

Enjolras is deep in his own confused melancholy when his undercover phone rings. It only takes a moment for him to snap into work mode, pushing all thoughts of Grantaire out of his head.

“Enjolras,” he says in greeting.

“Enjolras,” a slightly unfamiliar voice with a thick Russian accent answers slowly. “This is Belevich. We met last night with Kozlokov.”

“Yes, I remember,” Enjolras says, slipping easily into the charm-laced voice he uses for work. This is his job. He’s good at this. “Good to hear from you.”

“Is it?” Belevich asks. “How pleasant. I wish to speak to you in person, regarding the business you seek with my employer.”

“Of course,” Enjolras answers. “My partner is indisposed at the moment, but as soon as he is available, I will speak with him and we can set something up for tonight —”

“I think you will find your partner is not necessary for this conversation,” Belevich cuts him off, and something feels very wrong very suddenly. “I do not wish to wait for this evening. Come to the address I text to you in thirty minutes. We will discuss. . .our _business_ then.”

The line goes dead, and Enjolras suddenly _really_ wishes Grantaire wasn’t out on a walk right now. He gets a text with an address down near Hudson Yards, which will take him definitely at least thirty minutes to get to at this hour, and the tone of Belevich’s voice makes him think he really doesn’t have a choice. So, trying really hard to convince himself that Grantaire is probably just out somewhere that serves alcohol this early knocking back beer after beer, Enjolras grabs his coat and heads out for the subway.

 

By the time Enjolras is down by the rail yard, his time is definitely up and he’s definitely panicking. He can’t get the image of Grantaire — bound and held somewhere, waiting to be maimed or killed because the fucking subway took forever and Enjolras couldn’t get here in time — out of his head. He knows he’s being irrational. . .but he’s worried he’s not. What if they have him?

He reaches the address he was sent and breathes through his nose to loosen the tension in his muscles as he raises a hand to knock. This is his job. He’s good at this. He can do this.

The door is opened by someone Enjolras doesn’t know — probably a goon, he thinks — and he’s ushered into a large, empty warehouse. Stereotypical. These Russians could have bought out an entire hotel or an office building, but they brought him to an abandoned warehouse near the rail yard.

_They’re trying to intimidate me,_ he thinks, which sends another chill up his spine. More than anything, he really wishes he knew where Grantaire is.

Belevich is standing in the middle of the huge room, flanked by two more goons. Neither Vasilyev nor Kozlokov are here. Even worse, at least Vasilyev is friendly to them. But Enjolras keeps his back straight and his chin up, his face neutral. _This is his job._

“Interesting choice of locale,” he says, thankfully sounding completely calm and not at all like his heart is beating twice as fast as usual.

Belevich smirks mirthlessly. “Let us get to business, shall we?” he says.

“Of course,” Enjolras answers, stopping a few feet away from the Russians and casually slipping both hands into the pockets of his coat. “What sort of emergency called me down here so quickly?”

“My employer likes you,” Belevich says slowly, shifting from one foot to another in a way that reads as almost menacing somehow.

Enjolras waits for more, but it seems that Belevich has finished his thought, so he says, “Good. I like him, too. I think we’ll work well together.”

Belevish cocks his head. “He is too trusting.”

“Ah.” Enjolras’ heart rate speeds up all the more. “You don’t trust me.”

“No,” Belevich grunts, “you are not my problem. It is your partner I do not trust.”

Enjolras frowns. His mind races through the events of the night before. Aside from throwing himself headfirst at the bar, which he’s pretty sure Belevich didn’t actually see, he didn’t think Grantaire had done anything particularly suspicious. In fact, usually Grantaire gets along really well with the targets, not one has ever expressed distrust in him before.

“Grantaire is fine,” he says, his voice lowering a little in aggression. _Stop it, you can do this, stay calm._

Belevich is unfazed. “Your partner —”

“Grantaire.” _Stop._

“Grantaire,” Belevich concedes, “was unusually uncomfortable at our meeting last night. Squirrely. I don’t like it.”

Enjolras tries to unclench his jaw. “He was fine. If you’re unsure, you can ask Vasilyev, we have been working with him for —” 

“Vasilyev is an idiot. You understand my need to protect my employer, I’m sure.”

“Of course,” Enjolras says, though he still can’t get the anger completely out of his voice. He’s never had this problem before, usually he’s very good at his job, very good at sounding cool no matter how he feels inside. “I understand. But my partner and I are committed to this deal. What do you need us to do to reassure you?”

Belevich smiles, and this time it seems like he means it. It chills Enjolras straight to the bone.

“It is not you, but your partner who must reassure me. And he will.”

Enjolras freezes. “Where is Grantaire?” he finally asks, cutting to the point. There’s no point in pretense when Grantaire could be in real danger.

Belevich does not answer, he just smiles.

“Where is he?” Enjolras demands, definitely sounding a little desperate now. “Do you have him?”

“I will be in touch. That is all,” Belevich says, turning away, and suddenly the goons on either side of him are crowding Enjolras toward the door.

“If you hurt him —” Enjolras starts, but forces himself to stop. Whatever is happening in this room or to Grantaire, he can’t blow their cover. The job comes first, he tells himself again and again while images of Grantaire hurt, bleeding, or dead completely cloud his vision.

He’s been ushered out onto the street with the door slamming shut behind him before his vision clears, and he knows he should be worried about the integrity of the job and their cover, and he should be immediately calling Lamarque to get him on damage control here and fill him in on what happened, but he can’t. He can’t do anything until he knows if Grantaire is all right.

Enjolras forces himself to walk at least one block away before he pulls out his phone and calls Grantaire’s personal number.

It’s like a breath of air after nearly drowning when Grantaire finally answers the phone.

“Where the hell are you?” Grantaire’s beautiful, wonderful voice snaps angrily at him.

“Are you safe?” Enjolras demands breathlessly, because he has to be sure. “Are you all right?”

Grantaire makes a stuttering confused noise, but something in the frantic desperation of Enjolras’ voice must tip him off that this is _important_ because he doesn’t retort with some smartass response, he just says, “Yes, Enjolras. Yes, I’m all right, I’m safe. I’m at home.”

The relief that floods through Enjolras is so overwhelming he feels like his legs are going to give way under him. He can’t hear if Grantaire is saying anything else, and right now it doesn’t matter anyway because he’s _safe_.

Enjolras thumps against the wall of the building he’s standing by, dropping the phone, and lets himself collapse in on himself, sliding down the wall until he’s curled in a ball, his face buried in his knees.

Grantaire is safe. He’s safe. He’s not hurt, he’s not bleeding, he’s home and he’s fine and he’s _safe_.

It takes a minute before Enjolras can slow his heart rate down enough to pick up the phone again. He makes sure to wipe the moisture away from his eyes first, then picks up his phone and puts it to his ear.

“Grantaire?”

“What the fuck, Enjolras, what’s happening? Where are you? Are you in danger?”

“No, no, I’m okay,” Enjolras says shortly. “I’m fine, I’m just — I’m in the street, it’s loud.”

That’s a dumb excuse and both of them know it, but thankfully Grantaire doesn’t press it.

“Are you coming back?” he asks instead, still obviously pretty frightened. “Why would I not be safe?”

“Yes, I’m coming back,” Enjolras says, trying to sound reassuring but probably just sounding angry. “I’ll be there soon. Just — stay there, okay? Don’t leave.”

“I won’t!” Grantaire says defensively. Yeah, Enjolras must sound angry.

“I’ll brief you when I get there.” And he hangs up. He’s still too overwhelmed with relief that Grantaire is okay, that he’s safe. If they stay on the phone they’ll just end up yelling at each other, and Enjolras doesn’t have the energy for that night now. He barely has enough energy to stand up.

He definitely doesn’t have the energy to analyze the reaction he just had to thinking Grantaire might be in danger. All he can figure right now is that he is in deep shit.

 

It takes forty agonizing minutes to get back to the apartment. Partly because the trains are packed full of commuters going home from work, and partly because Enjolras is feeling way too drained to push through the crowd, so he just sort of lets himself be carried around by the flow of traffic for a while.

When he gets through the door of the rental, Grantaire stands abruptly from where he’s been sitting on the couch.He’s crossed the room and is holding Enjolras by his shoulders, inspecting his face for injury before Enjolras has even swung the door shut behind him.

It takes everything inside Enjolras not to collapse into Grantaire. All he wants right now is to hold him, to touch him, to assure himself that Grantaire is real and unharmed.

“What happened?” Grantaire demands once he’s made sure Enjolras is in one piece. He hasn’t let go of Enjolras’ shoulders yet. Enjolras wants to kiss him.

Enjolras wants to _kiss him?!_

Shaking suddenly out of Grantaire’s grasp, Enjolras crosses to the couch and sits down. Grantaire’s worried, indignant gaze follows him all the way.

“So?” he asks impatiently.

“Do you have any alcohol here?” Enjolras asks him.

Grantaire’s expression becomes even more bewildered and exasperated. Enjolras expects him to start yelling, but for some reason he just crosses to the bedside table, pulls a bottle out of the drawer, and brings it to Enjolras, sitting down on he coffee table across from him as Enjolras takes a swig of whatever is in that bottle. It burns going down, but it helps.

“What happened?” Grantaire asks again, softer this time, as though he’s worried Enjolras might have gone slightly insane.

“Belevich called while you were out,” Enjolras begins, unable to look Grantaire in the eye, so talking to his knees instead. “He wanted to meet right away, made it clear I didn’t have a choice. He told me not to wait for you, so I went down to Hudson Yards to meet with him —”

“You did _what?_ ”

Enjolras holds up a hand to quiet him. “He told me he doesn’t trust you. He made me believe you were in danger.”

Grantaire blinks. “Oh,” he says quietly, an unreadable expression on his face.

Enjolras waits for him to process this. Grantaire closes his eyes and takes a breath.

“What do we have to do?” he asks finally.

Enjolras shakes his head. “He said he’d be in touch. We need to be really careful here.”

Grantaire nods thoughtfully. Then, after a moment:“You sounded really freaked on the phone.”

 “Yes,” Enjolras says. Mostly because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Grantaire frowns. “Why?” he asks suspiciously.

Enjolras almost laughs. “Because, you complete jackass,” he sighs, “I don’t want you to die."

 

That night, after Grantaire falls asleep (reluctantly, and with a lot of complaining about being targeted by the Mafiya), Enjolras steals into the bathroom to make a phone call.

“It’s late there, is something wrong?” Combeferre asks immediately upon answering the phone.

“I think I’m in love with him,” Enjolras answers quietly but frantically.

The line is silent for a moment. “With Koslokov?” Combeferre asks tentatively.

“No. With Grantaire.”

Combeferre makes a groaning noise. “I was afraid of that.”

Enjolras gapes. What does _that_ mean? “You were? Of me falling for him?”

“No, of you realizing it.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Enjolras, you two have been into each other since day one,” Combeferre says wearily. “Why do you think you fight all the time?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You just called me to tell me you think you’re in love with him,” Combeferre points out. “ _I’m_ ridiculous?”

Enjolras sighs. “What am I going to do?”

“Nothing,” Combeferre insists firmly. “You haven’t done anything yet, have you?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

Although he knows Combeferre is right, Enjolras still feels a sting. “Out of curiosity —” he begins, but Combeferre interrupts him.

“Enjolras, you’re on a job with him. He’s so. . .unstable about you. It can’t end well, you know that.”

He’s right. Combeferre is right.

But still.

“Unstable?”

“Enjolras —” 

“I know. I won’t.”

It’s quiet again, and Enjolras knows Combeferre is feeling for him.

“What brought this on?” he asks gently.

Enjolras sighs, and explains the events of yesterday and this afternoon to Combeferre. By the time he’s finished, his decision not to do anything is solidified. Aside from the messiness it could cause in their partnership, Belevich was able to use Grantaire as leverage against him because he thought they were together. How much worse could it be if that were true? How much danger could he put Grantaire in by expressing his feelings?

“I’m sorry, Enjolras,” Combeferre says when Enjolras has finished. “I wish it were different.”

“It’s fine,” Enjolras insists.

“I do want you to be happy.”

“No, I know. It’s fine. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” And Enjolras hangs up before Combeferre can call him out on his lie.

Because it’s not fine.

It can’t be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...THIS was a long time coming. D: Sorry for the...two year wait? Yikes!
> 
> To be honest, there was a time where I thought I was done with Les Mis fic for good....and there was a solid year in there that I couldn't write anything at all (I was dealing with some stuff), but lately I've just been aching to get back to this one and a few others in particular. I'm also writing as a job, so that's a thing. Anyway here's chapter two!
> 
> Hopefully there won't be two years until the next chapter! Haha just kidding.....?
> 
> (I am a ridiculous human I am so sorry)


	3. Chapter 3

Grantaire doesn't sleep well all night. His head still hurts, and Enjolras keeps rolling over in his sleep, which wakes Grantaire up every time. Not to mention the times he keeps getting up out of bed to go into the bathroom and talk on the phone.

Okay, so that was one time, but still. Annoying.

Also. . .he can't get over what Enjolras told him earlier. Belevich doesn't trust him. Which means members of the Bratva are probably already tailing him. Probably Enjolras, too. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if they've already planted people in this building. There's a possibility he could be attacked. If Belevich decides he's not worth the risk, he could get taken out before he sees anything coming.

And then there's the fact that Enjolras was so clearly petrified when he called Grantaire earlier, when he walked through the door and saw Grantaire in person. The fear that Grantaire had heard in his voice over the phone -- he's never heard Enjolras talk like that. Not ever.

It was unsettling, to say the least.

He's fitful and sleepless trying to figure out what that means. They've been in thousands of dangerous situations over the years, and not once has he seen Enjolras scared like that. Why is this different? What is it about today?

He wonders if this is worse than Enjolras is telling him, although he didn't feel like Enjolras was keeping anything from him at the time, and usually he can tell. On the other hand, Enjolras has been on this trend of keeping things from him, taking meetings without him, not telling him anything unless he absolutely needs to know. So maybe Grantaire doesn't know Enjolras as well as he thought.

Anyway, he's not really surprised when he wakes up at about 5:30am from Enjolras rolling over for the six millionth time. He's tired of trying to go back to sleep, so he just gets up this time and goes to the tiny kitchen thing to put on a pot of coffee.

He's at the open window, smoking into the city with his now-empty coffee cup sitting on the windowsill next to his elbow when Enjolras wakes up at about 6:00.

"How long have you been up?" Enjolras asks Grantaire when he sees him.

Grantaire shrugs. "Half an hour or something. There's coffee on the stove."

Enjolras nods but doesn't say thank you, which is actually kind of a relief to Grantaire. That's the Enjolras he knows. He continues smoking while Enjolras gets his own cup of coffee, pours over some Bratva files while he drinks it, and then silently goes into the bathroom to take a shower.

He's finishing his sixth cigarette when Enjolras comes out of the bathroom, dressed (thankfully) and towelling his hair.

"You're going to kill yourself," Enjolras snips toward him, going back for a second cup of coffee, as per his usual routine. It goes: coffee, work, shower, coffee, work, coffee, yell at Grantaire to wake up, coffee. And that's Enjolras' morning.

Grantaire nods, letting the chill city morning air blow a plume of smoke from his mouth out down the street, watering his eyes a little.

"That's the plan," he finally answers when the smoke is all gone.

Enjolras looks up from his cup. "Stop that."

"Smoking?" Grantaire asks. "Or being nihilistic?"

Enjolras just huffs and takes a swig of his coffee.

Once Grantaire has finished this cigarette, he goes back for his own second cup of coffee. Between the two of them, they always invariably go through two full pots of the stuff, so he puts another on to brew. When he turns around, Enjolras is looking at him.

"What?" he asks defensively. He probably could have asked that normally, but there's something about Enjolras that makes him always defensive. Maybe the fact that Enjolras is always trying to get him to stop doing whatever he's doing.

"Can we talk about yesterday?" Enjolras asks him unexpectedly.

Grantaire stiffens. "What is there to talk about?"

"We have to make sure you're safe. I don't want Belevich's men coming after you, we need a plan."

Grantaire frowns. "We've never needed a plan before," he comments. "Not one like this, I mean."

"You've never been threatened so directly before," Enjolras retorts. "Please sit."

"I'm good."

Enjolras sighs and rolls his eyes at Grantaire's stubbornness, but he's obviously picking his battles today, because he doesn't push the issue.

"I don't want you going out without me," he says, and Grantaire immediately goes to protest, but he holds up a hand and continues, "at least for now. In return, I promise not to go out without you."

Grantaire narrows his eyes. That actually might be a deal he's willing to make, considering Enjolras has been doing pretty much everything without him recently and it's been severely freaking him out.

"You mean it?" he asks.

"I said I promise," Enjolras answers. Of course for him that means he means it. Enjolras' promise is law, according to him.

Grantaire takes a breath, then says, "Okay. Deal."

Enjolras nods, satisfied at having his way. "Secondly, I think we should both be armed at every meeting or rendezvous."

"No."

"Grantaire --"

"Enjolras, there is a reason you don't pack when we go to meetings, I'm the one who carries, I will always be the one who carries."

"But I --"

"No," Grantaire insists. "I will not have another San Diego incident, I will carry, you will not."

Enjolras glares at him. "I won't do what I did in San Diego," he says firmly.

"Damn straight you won't, because you won't be carrying."

"But we need to be cautious --"

"Which is why," Grantaire presses, raising his voice a little, "you will not be carrying." He sighs sharply and adds, "If it makes you feel any better, I can carry every time we go anywhere. We'll need to be more careful about anyone knowing about that, but I'd rather carry 24/7 than you swing a gun around in enemy territory."

"I do not --"

"San Diego."

Enjolras groans. "I wish you'd stop throwing that back in my face," he mutters under his breath. But then: "Fine. If you're armed every time we leave the room, and keep your gun close when we're here, I will continue my side of the San Diego Agreement."

"Good."

"Lastly. . . ."

"How can there possibly be anything else?" Grantaire groans, exasperated.

Enjolras ignores him. "Lastly, I need you to call Valjean and let him know."

Grantaire narrows his eyes again. "I don't want to worry him needlessly --"

"This isn't needless," Enjolras says, looking Grantaire straight in the eye, and his gaze is so intense it throws him a little.

A lot, actually.

"I'm really. . . ," Enjolras starts, then stops. He drops his gaze and plays with his hands for a second, and his voice is much quieter when he begins again. "I'm afraid," he breathes. "We can't keep this quiet, I don't know if I can protect you on my own."

Okay, that's not okay. Grantaire is reeling. Enjolras has never, not once behaved like this, or been worried like this. In fact, Grantaire doesn't think he's ever heard Enjolras admit to be afraid before. Ever. Of anything.

"Yeah, fine, I'll call him," Grantaire finally concedes softly. He can't look at Enjolras anymore. "Can I have some privacy?"

Enjolras nods and stands. "Of course. I'll just step outside. I'm not going anywhere," he adds, at Grantaire's sudden suspicious look vaguely in his direction. "I'll be just next door, at the coffee shop. I could use another cup. Call or come meet me when you've finished."

And he's gone. Grantaire is alone.

It takes a few seconds before he can move. This is weird, this is so weird, and he doesn't know what to make of it. It's like Enjolras has been abducted by aliens and replaced with someone who looks and sounds and smells a lot like Enjolras, but who cares about Grantaire and his safety in a way Grantaire never ever thought the real Enjolras ever did.

He's at the window again, but not smoking this time, when he dials Valjean's cell number. He probably should have called him at his office, Grantaire realizes as the phone rings and the tiny figure of Enjolras (recognizable even from this distance) exits the building downstairs and walks into the café next door.

"Grantaire," Valjean's friendly voice greets him over the line. "Always so nice to hear from you. Is everything alright?"

"Hey, Valjean," Grantaire answers. "Yeah, it's fine. Well -- No, I guess it's not. Um, I might be in some trouble here."

He goes on to explain the situation in as much detail as he can without making it sound worse than he thinks it is. He's not sure he really has that much of a handle on the situation, actually, but it's better for him to relay the facts here than have Enjolras make a huge deal out of it.

Valjean just listens, adding an, "All right," or an "I see," when the situation calls for it. He waits until Grantaire is completely done rambling about it, and then he says, "And Enjolras is worried?"

"Yeah. He's freaked."

"More so than usual."

"Mmhmm," Grantaire confirms, watching tiny people go about their regular days far below him.

"I see," Valjean says again. "Well, if Enjolras is worried, so am I."

"I think he might be overreacting."

"It's possible," Valjean agrees, "but I don't want to take any chances. Do you feel an increased agent presence would affect your case?"

"No, that would make things so much worse," Grantaire says immediately. "They're already suspicious, if we start bringing new people in, or if I'm being tailed by people outside the Bratva, they're gonna know."

"I understand, and I trust your judgement here, but I do think you need some form of backup. How about just one agent? I have a native in your area right now who just finished her case. She's extremely discreet."

"I don't know," Grantaire says hesitantly. "I don't think it's a good idea to bring even one more person in."

"Don't bring her in, then," Valjean says. "She doesn't have to be part of the deal. She's a wonder at moving around unseen, she can be there for backup."

Grantaire thinks for a moment. "Do I know her?"

"No, I don't believe you've worked with her before. She's the best I have, Grantaire."

"Hey."

"Aside from you, of course."

"And you trust her?"

"Absolutely," Valjean says. "Cosette and I have known her since they were both children. I think she's ideal for this job, and I also think you two will get along very well."

Grantaire sighs. "Okay," he relents. "But you get to tell Enjolras."

Valjean laughs. "Very well," he agrees. "Stay safe, Grantaire. I'll speak to you soon. Oh, and Cosette has directed me to tell you to call her soon, she misses you."

"I will," Grantaire answers, smiling despite himself. "Thanks, Valjean."

"Of course."

They say goodbye and hang up, and Grantaire sends Cosette a quick text saying, _you know you could just call me_. And then, as promised, he heads down to the coffee shop to meet Enjolras.

Enjolras is on the phone when he gets there, so he orders a plain black coffee at the counter before he joins him at the table.

"No, I think that's a great idea, thank you so much," Enjolras is saying as Grantaire sits down across from him. "Yes, please text me the location and we'll meet her at noon. Perfect, thank you." And he hangs up.

"Valjean?" Grantaire asks, and Enjolras nods while taking a long draught of his latte.

After he swallows, he says enthusiastically, "He has a great idea --"

"Yeah, I know, Enjolras, I spoke to him before he called you."

"Right," Enjolras says, but he's clearly distracted. He seems really excited about the prospect of having another person on their team, which is also really weird for Enjolras. Usually he hates everyone except people he already knows and has vetted personally.

"What is with you?" Grantaire asks, but Enjolras ignores him. That's more normal.

"We're meeting her at noon."

"Yes, I heard."

"We should get some work done before then. Come on, let's go home."

"I have coffee coming," Grantaire protests.

Enjolras rolls his eyes as though Grantaire is being difficult by having ordered and not recieved his coffee yet. "Get it to-go, we have work to do."

And so Enjolras continues to be super annoying and pushy while Grantaire goes up to the counter and asks for his order to-go, hovering unnecessarily until Grantaire has coffee cup in hand and he can usher him outside and back into their apartments

 

Enjolras is irritatingly chipper all morning, being super productive and trying to get Grantaire to be the same, so obviously Grantaire spends the entire morning loafing about and being as unproductive and he possibly can be. The inevitable result of this is that Enjolras is sitting on the couch and Grantaire is lying on the bed and they're loudly bickering about god knows what when Enjolras finally gets a text at about 11:30.

"Time to go," is all he snaps before they're gathering coats and scarves (and gun, on Grantaire's part) and heading out the door.

The address Valjean sent them turns out to be a tiny hole-in-the-wall Venezuelan restaurant in midtown. There are only six tables inside, and with the bustling staff, the place is pretty packed. Sitting alone at a table for four is a woman with dark hair (almost as dark as Grantaire's) and olive skin, staring at her phone and typing furiously. She looks up a few seconds after they enter and smiles, though it seems more amused than friendly. Then she waves.

Enjolras makes a beeline for her, sticking out his hand to shake hers right away.

"You guys must be Valjean's friends," the woman says, not standing but accepting Enjolras' hand to shake.

"Yes, I'm Enjolras, this is Grantaire." Grantaire nods from behind Enjolras, but doesn't feel the need to shake hands, which the woman seems fine with. "You are?"

"Éponine," the woman says. "Sit. Valjean filled me in on your situation on my way here."

They both take seats at the table with her, and she waits for them to order food ("I come here all the time, they already know what I want,") before she'll talk about business.

"How do we know we're safe here?" Enjolras asks. "Isn't this kind of public?"

"We're fine," Éponine says with a wave of her hand, and that's that apparently. "So you got on the wrong side of the Russians, did you?"

Enjolras frowns. "Not exactly," he says. "We've just hit a hiccup with one of them. We need some backup in case he goes rogue and tries to take us out."

Éponine nods. "Not a problem. I just finished a case, so I'm decently free for the next few somethings. What kind of job is it?"

"Human trafficking," Enjolras tells her.

"The best kind," Éponine answers, in a tone that Grantaire is decently sure is sarcastic. "You have girls?"

"No," Enjolras says slowly as though he thinks Éponine might be insane. "We're not actually trafficking."

Éponine snorts. "Yeah, duh," she says. "They're going to want to see the product. You mean you don't have an agent undercover?"

"We're undercover," Enjolras tells her, clearly getting more and more exasperated. It's really entertaining.

Éponine looks at him for a moment like she's sizing him up. Then, she turns to Grantaire. "You're very quiet," she remarks, and it doesn't sound like a judgement, just an observation.

"Enjolras talks enough for the both of us," Grantaire answers.

At that, Éponine laughs. Enjolras rolls his eyes.

"Okay, I'm going to see what's taking our drinks so long," he says, standing and walking toward the kitchen.

Éponine watches him go. Grantaire watches Éponine.

"Is he always like that?" she asks eventually.

"One hundred percent of the time," Grantaire answers.

"I'm so sorry."

Grantaire grins. "So you think they're going to want us to provide proof of product?" he asks.

"Oh yeah," Éponine answers, leaning back in her chair. "I'm surprised you haven't already prepared for that."

Grantaire shrugs. "Generally people know us in California. At least enough to trust that we'll come through."

"Why is that?"

"We're good at our jobs."

Éponine nods. "Fair enough," she says. "This is the East Coast. Out here, no one trusts anyone. You need proof."

"Hmm."

Éponine cocks her head. "So I'm guessing I'm going to have to pose as a kidnapped girl at some point, huh?"

"We won't ask you to do anything you don't want to," Grantaire assures her. "We're grateful for what you're doing as is."

"Sure you are," Éponine smirks. "So which one of you pissed them off?"

"I did, apparently," Grantaire says. "They don't trust me."

"Do you know why?"

 _Probably because I was acting like a giant idiot when they met me_. "Nope, no idea."

Éponine shrugs. "Well, it doesn't matter anyway. You just need a covert bodyguard?"

Grantaire pauses for a second and looks toward Enjolras, who is now somehow in deep conversation with the bus boy. "Actually, I'd prefer if you watched out for him, too."

"You're worried about him?"

"He's just. . .reckless. And stupid. And rash. What?"

Éponine is smiling at him in a way that seems way too knowing. "Nothing," she says. "I can look out for both of you, not a problem."

"Great, and can you also not let Enjolras know you're doing that?"

Éponine narrows her eyes at Grantaire. "You guys are like, partners, right? You tell each other stuff?"

"Partners, kind of, yeah," Grantaire answers, "tell each other stuff, not at all."

Éponine snorts. "Well, I guess I don't blame you with that uptight asshole."

That makes Grantaire laugh pretty hard. This is the moment that Enjolras decides to return, and look very confused about what's happening with Grantaire. As though he doesn't understand what laughter is

 

The rest of lunch is spent with Enjolras hammering out the details of their arrangement with Éponine, and then Éponine telling Grantaire stories of her and Cosette when they were kids (evidently they hated each other as children but love each other as adults, which Grantaire finds very amusing -- he can't imagine a person on earth who could hate Cosette, but somehow he feels like Éponine would be the person to surprise him), while Enjolras irritably eats his food (he doesn't like when business meetings turn into social affairs, he'd rather be working all the time).

As they leave, Éponine tells Grantaire to give her best to the Valjeans when he talks to them next, and then gives him a hug, like they've been friends for years. She and Enjolras shake hands, and then she strides off at an alarming pace for the train station.

Enjolras watches her go, and then looks at Grantaire.

"You guys got along," he says, and he sounds pissed.

Grantaire frowns at him in confusion. "Yeah, she's cool," he says. "Unlike some people."

"And there it is," Enjolras mutters. "I know you're baiting me."

"Me?" Grantaire gasps dramatically. "How could you even suggest --"

"Okay, all right, enough of that." Enjolras turns toward the subway station and takes off, probably assuming Grantaire will follow him.

Once again, he's right.

Enjolras doesn't talk to Grantaire the whole journey home, like he's mad or something. Grantaire has no idea what he could possibly be so put out about, but to be frank, he rarely knows why Enjolras does anything, and it's not unlike him to be pissed off about _something_ Grantaire has done, so he doesn't try to read too much into it. Even when they're back in the apartment, Enjolras doesn't say a word, he just goes to his computer and starts working again.

Grantaire rolls his eyes and starts disassembling his gun.

"What are you doing?" Enjolras snaps at him. So he _hasn't_ lost the ability to speak.

"I'm putting away my gun," Grantaire tells him, although that really should be obvious.

"Don't do that."

"Why not?" This is idiotic.

"You said you'd keep it with you."

Grantaire scoffs. "I need to keep it assembled and loaded while we're in the apartment?" he asks. "That's stupid."

"It's not stupid," Enjolras protests, "it's for your protection."

"They're not going to come for us in the _apartment_ \--" Grantaire starts, but Enjolras interrupts him by suddenly standing.

"Look, I'm _trying_ ," he shouts. "I'm trying to keep you safe, and I'm trying to do it in a way that won't make you miserable. What the hell do you want from me?" he demands. "Do you _want_ to get killed?"

And god, this is so unfair. Enjolras orders him around and treats him like shit and here _he_ is acting like he's the put-upon one, like _he's_ the one who has to try, night after night, not to curl up and fucking die because the person in bed with him, whose fucking _warmth_ he can _feel_ , is just so _fucking awful_ and _gorgeous_ and he is so _in love_. This is bullshit, absolute fucking bullshit.

So Grantaire snaps. Finally. "I need some time away from you," he tells Enjolras, heading for the door.

"No!" Enjolras actually barks at him. "You promised!"

"FINE," Grantaire bellows back, which he knows is childish but _fuck this_. "Then I'm TAKING A SHOWER."

And with that, he marches into the bathroom and slams the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously I was on some sort of caffeine withdrawal or something when I wrote this chapter. I don't know.
> 
> Chapter four may take a few weeks because I am writing other things at the mo, but it will be coming as soon as I can get it down!


	4. Chapter 4

To her credit, Éponine is indeed incredibly discreet. Enjolras has, if he’s honest, been actively trying to look for her presence the last few days, and even his seasoned eyes can’t find any trace of her.

For a day or so, he actually becomes convinced that she’s not actually around, but on the third day when she shows up at their apartment at midnight with so much information about their last three days that she couldn’t possibly know if she weren’t there watching them (and for some ungodly reason, a giant cookie that she hands wordlessly to Grantaire — who can eat whatever the fuck he wants, just not _that_ much sugar at _fucking midnight_ ), that Enjolras is forced to admit her work is top notch.

Which actually makes him like her a thousand times more. People who do what they do well are always pretty good in his book.

Unless what they do well is tyranny. Then, not so much.

Grantaire, on the other hand, has been doing a terrible job lately. It’s like he’s thrown off, and Enjolras can’t figure out why. He would think that having Éponine on their side would make him more confident, but maybe it’s having the opposite effect on him. It’s the only thing Enjolras can think that’s changed here.

Grantaire is also not sleeping. Which Enjolras knows, because neither is he. They end up lying there next to each other, both awake, neither speaking or acknowledging each other in any way. Which is agonizing, and makes it even more impossible to fall asleep, so neither of them is doing any sleeping lately.

Finally, on the fifth night of this, after a tense meeting with the Russians, Grantaire falls asleep. Enjolras knows this because Grantaire keeps mumbling Enjolras’ name, and he doesn’t do that when he’s awake.

This is torture. Realizing his feelings for Grantaire has made everything so much worse, the fights, the staring, the tension — and especially this bed-sharing thing. And this was _his_ idea in the first place, which makes it even worse.

Enjolras indulges himself for just a moment and rolls over so he can look at Grantaire through the darkness. He hates to admit it, but Grantaire is kind of adorable like this, his curls plastered to his face, his lips slightly parted. As Enjolras watches, Grantaire mutters his name again and it physically feels like a knife in his chest.

God, this sucks.

A soft knock on the door startles Enjolras and he jumps a little, then instantly worries that he might have woken Grantaire and he’ll be caught watching him sleep.

But Grantaire just makes a cute little snorting sound, half-rolls over, and continues to sleep like an asshole.

Relieved, Enjolras slips quietly out of bed and goes to the door. He looks through the peephole cautiously and then sighs and rolls his eyes before he opens the door to Éponine and the small stack of manila folders in her arms on the other side.

Behind him, Grantaire mumbles his name again before Enjolras can step out into the hallway and shut the door behind him, his face surely bright pink now.

Éponine smirks, confirming that she definitely heard that.

“You share a bed?” she asks dryly, making Enjolras glare at her.

“None of your business,” he whispers harshly, but that just makes Éponine grin at him and raise her eyebrows.

“And how often does he do that?” she asks, tilting her head at him in a way which gives Enjolras the horrifying impression that she understands exactly what’s going on here.

So he sighs and snaps, “Every night.”

Éponine snorts, and tries to cover it with her hand too late. “Well,” she says, “you _are_ married.”

“We never said we were _married._ ” Enjolras snaps back at her, but she puts her free hand on her hips and cocks an eyebrow at him and he shuts up.

“The Russians think you’re married,” Éponine says matter-of-factly.

Enjolras blinks at her. “They do?” he asks. “I know they think we’re together, but —”

“No, they think you’re married,” Éponine says. “Trust me. And don’t try to deny it, I think that would be a bad idea. Also,” and now she places a manilla folder in Enjolras’ hands, “what I came here in the middle of the night to tell you.”

Enjolras opens the folder and scans the documents inside while Éponine begins to tell him, “The Russians are still very suspicious of Grantaire. They’ve —”

“They have his files,” Enjolras realizes out loud as he understands the papers he’s look at.

Éponine nods grimly. “Thankfully, nothing from the Bureau,” she adds. “As far as I can tell, his cover is all right. But they pulled everything that’s even remotely available on him, birth certificate, housing records, where he went to school. . . .”

“Why?” Enjolras asks. “What purpose does all this serve? God, his _medical records?_ ”

Éponine shrugs, but she looks worried, too, and honestly that scares Enjolras even more. “They’re checking up on him.”

“I understand that, but why would they need his dental records for that?” Enjolras demands, still skimming through the documents Éponine has given him.

“I don’t know,” Éponine admits. “All I know is they have all of this, so they’re certainly planning on using it for something.”

Enjolras frowns. This is a huge invasion of Grantaire’s privacy, so he’s trying really hard not to read the records in his hand, just to discern what they are and move on, but one of them is a medical chart that tells him that Grantaire had surgery when he was only a few years old, and the image of a toddler version of Grantaire lying unconscious on an operating table and he’s gripped with a sudden desire to go back inside the apartment and check on him, make sure he’s okay.

He resists that urge and closes the folder.

“Fuck,” Enjolras breathes.

Éponine nods in agreement. “I thought you’d rather have these now and not wait until morning.”

“No, you made a good call,” Enjolras agrees. “Don’t tell him about this, okay?”

Éponine frowns at that. “You don’t think he should know?”

“No,” Enjolras says firmly. “No, it would just scare him, and he doesn’t need that. We won’t tell him, not until we know why they’ve pulled all of this.”

“All right,” Éponine says reluctantly. “You’re the boss, I guess.”

“I am,” Enjolras replies. “I need you to trust me.”

Éponine shrugs. “You just need me to work for you,” she says, but she’s not actually arguing, and Enjolras has gotten to know her enough to realize that.

“Is there anything else?” he asks quietly.

Éponine shakes her head. “That’s it. For now, anyway.”

“Come to me the second you have anything else about this,” Enjolras says. “To me, not to him.”

“I will,” Éponine assures him. “Have a good night.” And then she’s gone.

Enjolras sighs nervously and goes back inside the apartment where Grantaire is still sleeping peacefully, his hair all tousled, and his arm draped over his own face. Enjolras aches for him, to hold him, to protect him.

And it’s just killing him that he can’t.

 

Enjolras doesn’t sleep at all. It’s like he’s keeping vigil, standing guard. Like he’s afraid someone’s going to climb in the window and attack Grantaire in his bed.

Maybe he is afraid. He certainly can’t calm down enough to sleep tonight. The folder of Grantaire’s records is hidden inside Enjolras’ bag, safe in a place where Grantaire won’t look for them.

When Grantaire finally wakes up, Enjolras is sitting on the couch, emailing Lamarque. Because he feels out of his depth here. Suddenly, he’s not sure if they’re safe anymore.

“Coffee?” Grantaire grunts at him, his voice deep and throaty with sleep, and his hair all tousled and tangled. It takes all of the great deal of self-restraint Enjolras has not to cross the room and bury his fingers in that hair, to kiss that stupid crooked mouth so hard the wry smile that’s spread across it is dashed away completely.

Instead, Enjolras nods over at the half-empty coffee pot and tries not to watch Grantaire’s too-skinny-for-how-broad-his-shoulders-are frame climb out of bed and make a beeline for the coffee without even putting pants on. He’s seen Grantaire in his boxers before, obviously, many times, but this morning Enjolras’ feelings are all mixed up with fear and protectiveness and something about wanting to make sure Grantaire is _safe_ also makes him kind of want to _jump Grantaire’s bones_ , which is a weird and confusing new twist to life.

Enjolras finishes off his email and hits send in a hurry before Grantaire has a chance to see it, even though of course Grantaire doesn’t come sit next to him, instead opting to drink his coffee at the window, looking down at the city and shiver needlessly while he does. Enjolras watches him, thinking about that little boy on the operating table, about the grown man standing in front of him who argues when Enjolras tries to take him to the hospital to potentially save his life. This man is indispensable to him, Enjolras thinks. There’s no one on this earth who means quite the same thing to him. There’s no one who possibly could.

Whatever that actually means.

“What?” Grantaire snaps, and Enjolras jumps, realizing he’s been gaping at Grantaire for a while now.

“Nothing,” Enjolras shoots back. It comes out a lot harsher than he means for it to, and Grantaire makes a face at him that clearly says, _What the fuck is your problem?_

“Okay,” Grantaire replies slowly. “Do you want the shower? Or can I take one?”

_Both_ , Enjolras thinks, and a flash of the two of them, naked and wet, kissing deeply under the shower stream, jumps into his head.

“I don’t care,” is what he says. Which is so not true, but okay.

Grantaire just shrugs and heads into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

As soon as Enjolras can hear the water running and knows he has some noise coverage, he groans audibly. He’s such an idiot and he seriously needs to get a hold of himself.This is his partner. His very emotional and erratic partner who is weirdly obsessed with him in a very unhealthy way. His desperately attractive partner (at least, according to Enjolras), who he absolutely one hundred percent _cannot get into something_ with because that would be tragic and terrible and wrong. Because Combeferre was right, this can’t happen.

It _can’t_.

But oh _god_ does he want it to.

 

Enjolras is so tempted to take this meeting alone tonight. To just leave Grantaire in the apartment with Éponine watching over him, and go meet the Russians by himself where all he has to worry about is his own safety. But they need to act like nothing is awry, and he did make a promise, so he allows Grantaire to come with him.

Although Grantaire in a suit is almost worse than Grantaire in his boxers, and the cab they take to the club feels hot and crowded, and Enjolras doesn’t really feel like he can breathe.

Thankfully, the club isn’t too far away, and the cab ride over only takes about fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of severe self-restraint, but still.

Grantaire seems to be in relatively good spirits tonight, which probably makes sense considering they’ve been taking meetings with the Russians for the past few days and things have been going well, from the looks of things. He probably thinks the suspicion over him is dwindling. He doesn’t know.

Enjolras sits there, imagining what it would be like to sidle up to where Grantaire is gazing out the window — tapping one finger against the glass in time to whatever song is in his head — to wrap him in his arms and hold him and protect him. To kiss him.

Fuck, he’s going to have to spend all night pretending he’s married to this man while simultaneously trying to keep himself from diving on him and just holding and not letting go. This is going to be _fun_.

“Oh,” he says, shattering the silence between them as the car pulls up to the curb outside the club, “by the way, they think we’re married.”

Grantaire turns and gapes at him, but Enjolras doesn’t give him a chance to respond, honestly fearing what his reaction might be, and just opens his door and gets out of the car.

He barely checks behind him to make sure Grantaire is following him (Grantaire is always following him) while he strides inside. It’s not a surprise when Grantaire appears at his elbow, glaring at him, but Enjolras won’t acknowledge him. He’s not capable of it right now.

Apparently he has to, though, because Grantaire grabs his elbow and yanks until Enjolras is facing him, his expression livid.

“They think _what?_ ” he hisses. Thank god, Enjolras is spared from this particular fight by a Russian goon appearing at his shoulder to escort them inside.

Enjolras barely registers his own voice as he greets the Russians warmly, like old friends. He can feel himself slipping into work mode, but he’s distracted tonight. More so than he’s ever felt on he job before. This could be dangerous.

They’re all here again tonight — Vasilyev, Belevich, and Koslokov — and while Vasilyev and Koslokov seem in good humor tonight, Belevich is nearly giddy. It makes Enjolras feel all the worse about this. Maybe he should call this meeting a wash, find a way to get out of it. It doesn’t feel safe. He’s worried.

But Grantaire seems to take it all as a good sign, and pushes his way in to cheerily shake hands with all of them before sitting down next to Enjolras. Although the glare he shoots Enjolras privately as we takes a seat is unmistakeable.

Once the pleasantries have been exchanged and everyone is seated, Koslokov leans forward.

“We have good news,” he says in his thick accent. “Our boss is ready to make a deal.”

“That’s excellent!” Enjolras says, taking the lead as always while Grantaire just smiles exuberantly beside him. “We’ll draw up the —”

“Not yet,” Belevich cuts him off, grinning. “First, of course, we must sample the product.”

Ah. Yes. Éponine predicted this. Grantaire is close enough that Enjolras can feel him stiffen beside him, but luckily they’ve planned for this.

“Of course,” Enjolras concedes, although he had hoped they wouldn’t have to bring Éponine in. “I don’t know how much _sampling_ we’ll be able to allow, but an inspection is of course in order.”

“Wonderful,” Vasilyev enthuses. He seems so proud of his friends, it’s almost a shame their whole relationship is a lie situated to entrap him. Almost.

“Of course,” Belevich continues, positively gleeful, “you know the age restrictions.”

Enjolras’ blood runs cold. Grantaire seems confused, but Enjolras is pretty sure he knows where this is going.

“We hadn’t discussed —” he begins, but Belevich cuts him off again, staring straight at Grantaire as though testing him.

“No more than twelve.”

And now Grantaire gets it. They’re not just dealing with girls here, with human trafficking. The Russians are trading children.

Somehow, and this deeply impresses Enjolras considering who Grantaire is, Grantaire keeps his cool. Children are a touchy subject for him, and he has nearly burned them before when children have been involved. Enjolras doesn’t know what it stems from and he’s never asked, but he’s extremely glad Grantaire is keeping it together right now. But Enjolras can tell Grantaire is cracking, that he won’t be able to keep this up for very long.

“I see,” Enjolras says calmly. “If you would allow my partner and I a moment.”

“Of course,” Vasilyev cuts in before Belevich can respond to Enjolras. “Take a moment to discuss. I realize this stipulation to our agreement is new.”

Enjolras stands, pulling a very stiff Grantaire up with him. “Thank you,” he says graciously, hoping Grantaire doesn’t fall apart until they get out of earshot. This is so dangerous, he should have just come here himself. “We’ll be back in a moment. Grantaire.”

Wordlessly, Grantaire turns and leads Enjolras back to the bar. He’s moving so fast he’s already ordered a whiskey by the time Enjolras has joined him.

“Grantaire —” Enjolras begins, but he’s violently cut off before he can say anything.

“They want _kids_ , Enjolras,” Grantaire hisses, reaching for the glass that’s been placed in front of him and downing the contents before slamming the tumbler back down on the table. “ _Children_. They’re trading babies!”

“Which is why we’re here,” Enjolras responds firmly, reaching out to wave the bartender off before Grantaire can order another drink. “We’re going to take them down. This is it, Grantaire. We get them in this and we can take down this whole ring of the Bratva.”

Grantaire’s hands are shaking. It’s all Enjolras can do not to take them between his own.

“I can’t,” Grantaire is muttering, raising one trembling hand to his forehead. “I can’t do this.”

“You can.”

“I can’t _do_ this.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras snaps, finally breaking through the invisible wall he’s laid between them and gripping Grantaire by the shoulders. “You _can_ do this. _We_ can do this.”

All at once, Grantaire has fixed Enjolras with this _look_. This look that chills Enjolras through and through, that makes him realize exactly how warm Grantaire’s arms are under Enjolras’ grasp.

Enjolras drops his arms back to his sides.

Still shaking, Grantaire sighs sharply. “Enjolras,” he mutters, almost too quietly to hear over the noise of the club, “I’m —”

He cuts himself off before he can finish, but Enjolras knows. He’s afraid. Enjolras wants nothing more than to quell his fear, to fix it, to hold him. Every single reason to not just grab Grantaire and kiss him is starting to seem completely irrational and unfounded. He’s so close to taking Grantaire’s face between his hands and diving in when Grantaire stops him.

“And this _bullshit_ about pretending to be _married_ ,” he spits. “As if we don’t have enough to fucking deal with.”

It’s like ice has pierced Enjolras’ chest. He stops dead. “What?”

“I can’t deal with all of this,” Grantaire snaps. “This is all just too fucking much.”

And with that, he pushes past Enjolras and elbows his way toward the bathroom, leaving Enjolras stunned and alone by the bar.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for vomiting and very brief suicidal ideation.

Grantaire can’t breathe. He’s shaking so hard he feels he might come apart, and the water he’s been splashing all over his face and hands is doing nothing to help. This is awful. This is absurd.

He wants to be sick.

“I’m done,” he hears himself muttering before he fumbles his phone out of his pocket. And then it’s just about tapping the screen a few times and double checking the stalls in the bathroom to make sure he’s alone before he’s snapping at the one person who could probably help him right now, “I’m _done!_ ”

“What happened?” Valjean asks immediately, ridiculously patient even as Grantaire shouts at him.

“It doesn’t matter what happened —” he’s still yelling at he’s not even sure why, “— what matters is I’m done! I’m finished, I’m not doing this anymore!”

“Grantaire, I want to help you, but I need more information about —”

“Valjean, I’m quitting,” he interrupts. “I’m done.”

“Okay,” Valjean breathes. “Okay, you’re quitting. I hear you. Please tell me what happened that caused you to make that decision.”

Still shaking, still on the verge of vomiting, Grantaire takes the deepest breath he can manage at the moment, and tells Valjean everything.

When he’s done, the line goes quiet.

“Valjean?” Grantaire asks after a moment. If the goddamn line disconnected, he’s just going to take out his gun and shoot himself in the face.

Okay, maybe not quite that extreme, but still.

Finally, Valjean sighs. “Grantaire,” he says quietly, “I know this is hard for you, and I’m so sorry about this, but I need you to stay in the game right now.”

“No,” Grantaire says immediately, but Valjean presses on.

“I respect that you’ve made a choice, Grantaire, but I think you’re making it emotionally and not out of logic.”

“So? I don’t care about logic right now!”

“I know you don’t, but I think you should. I need you to reconsider. Please just hear me out, and then if you still want to quit, I’ll take you out immediately. I promise. Please?”

Grantaire bites his lip. He owes Valjean a lot. “Fine,” he snaps. “What is it?”

“You are very close to breaking this case,” Valjean begins carefully. “ _You_ are. Enjolras can’t do this without you.”

“Yes, he can.”

Valjean ignores that. “The only way they stop trading children is if we stop them. You can do that. If you walk away, this deal goes South, and you will never forgive yourself. I know that because I know you. I’m not trying to guilt you, I’m trying to get you to see the facts.”

Grantaire grumbles. “It sure feels like guilt.”

“I apologize for that.”

“But not for what you said.”

“No,” Valjean says. “This is important, Grantaire. I know you can do this.”

Grantaire looks down at his hand, clutching the bathroom sink.

He’s not shaking anymore.

 

Enjolras is waiting outside the bathroom when Grantaire opens the door. Of course. This is why no one came in to interrupt his breakdown. Enjolras is a prick, but he’s a prick who won’t allow Grantaire’s emotional meltdowns to burn their mission — and sometimes Grantaire begrudgingly appreciates that.

“Are you all right?” Enjolras asks when Grantaire emerges, but he’s looking at his phone and clearly doesn’t actually care about the answer.

“Fine,” Grantaire answers shortly. “We can get back to the meeting now.”

“No need,” Enjolras says, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “I told them you were sick and finished it by myself. We’re meeting with them again tomorrow. Right now, we’re going home.”

With that, Enjolras turns on his heel and starts walking out of the club. As always, Grantaire follows.

“Why are we meeting with them tomorrow?” Grantaire asks as soon as the doors are closed in the car.

“You’re doing what?” Éponine asks from the driver’s seat as she pulls out.

Enjolras sighs sharply. “We’re meeting with them tomorrow because _you_ had an incident tonight,” he says, his voice as cutting as his sigh. “They want to meet with both of us, not just me, so I can’t make a deal with them unless you’re there and you’re present, and I can’t bust them without a deal.” He says all of this painstakingly, as though Grantaire is a dim-witted toddler who can’t grasp this simple concept.

Grantaire doesn’t answer, but he does catch Éponine watching him with concern through the rearview mirror before she quickly looks away.

 

He doesn’t sleep again. He can tell from the way his breath is too shallow and he keeps shifting that Enjolras doesn’t either, but Grantaire doesn’t try to speak to him. He feels somehow numb inside, like the incident at the club seared him and now he can’t feel anything. He’s not used to feeling like this sober.

He doesn’t like it.

The only reasonable thing to do here is to drink, Grantaire thinks, so he slips out of bed, pulling his flask out of the bedside table as he goes, and heads toward the couch to get plastered.

It takes most of the flask and a few swallows from the vodka he keeps in the freezer before he’s as drunk as he needs to be to make the numbness feel okay. He could stop there, but what’s the fun in that? It’s not until he starts to feel sick again — _thank god, at least he can feel_ something — that he stops drinking. And that’s only really because he starts throwing up instead.

It doesn’t make sense when he feels hands pushing his hair back from his face as he retches into the toilet bowl, because his hands are holding onto the toilet seat to steady himself. It makes less sense when he hears someone shushing him gently, in a weirdly consoling way instead of like they’re trying to shut him up. It must be Éponine who presses her face softly against his shoulder, who silently rubs his back, who makes a small sympathetic sound when Grantaire lets out a little sob over the toilet. It must be. She must have broken in to check up on them or something. Enjolras wouldn’t be compassionate like this, that’s for sure.

Éponine picks him up off the ground when he’s done retching, pulls him to his feet. It doesn’t really register with Grantaire that Éponine shouldn’t be taller than he is. She guides him back to the bed and helps him get into it, muttering comfort in a strangely deep voice. Once he’s in bed, she brushes the sweat-plastered hair away from his forehead and whispers, _Just sleep now_. And Grantaire thinks, yes I can do that, so he does.

He’s too far gone to notice Enjolras slipping back into bed next to him, and he’s solidly asleep by the time Enjolras reaches out and touches his face gently, his face achingly worried for the man in bed with him.

 

“ _Fuck_.”

Grantaire wakes up with the biggest headache he’s had since. . .well, since he was concussed a few days ago.

He doesn’t realize he’s expecting a snarky response until he doesn’t get one. He looks up and scans the room. _Where is Enjolras?_

The bathroom door is open, the light turned off, the shower empty.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Grantaire spits again, shouting this time, the noise he himself makes shooting off another sharp pain in his head, which makes him groan.

Getting out of bed is excruciating, but he leaps up anyway. Enjolras _promised_ he wouldn’t leave without Grantaire, what kind of bullshit is this that Enjolras — _Enjolras!_ — would break his word like this?

Grantaire is struggling to get his shoes on and verging on a full-fledged panic attack when the door opens and Enjolras walks through like nothing is wrong.

“What the _fuck?_ ” Grantaire demands and then instantly regrets it as another spasm in his head makes him squint in the pain of it. “Where were you?”

Enjolras frowns deeply, disapprovingly, at Grantaire and wordlessly goes to the couch to sit. It’s only when he’s settled there with his computer on his lap that he answers, “Éponine came by, I was talking to her outside.”

Oh.

“You didn’t leave?” Grantaire asks, his rage receding, replacing itself with something like embarrassment.

“No,” Enjolras responds icily, his eyes level on his laptop screen. “I promised, didn’t I?” he adds, a little venomously.

Grantaire frowns, but sits back down on the bed. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I thought you’d left.”

Enjolras’ cold blue eyes glance up from his screen and lock onto Grantaire. After a moment of silence, he asks quietly, “Are you all right?”

Again with that question. And again, it’s not like he actually cares.

“I’m peachy,” Grantaire replies, his voice ripe with sarcasm. “I need a hot shower and a gallon of coffee, but I’m great.”

Enjolras watches Grantaire silently as Grantaire goes to dump out the cold remains of Enjolras’ morning coffee and make a fresh pot. It’s almost noon, so Enjolras’ dregs are undoubtedly more than five hours stale. It’s as Grantaire is heading toward the bathroom with a clean towel that Enjolras stops him.

“We need to talk,” he says quietly, but dangerously.

Grantaire laughs shortly. “No,” he disagrees, “we don’t.”

“God fucking damn it, Grantaire, will you just _sit_ for a minute?” Enjolras snaps, which actually surprises Grantaire enough that he stops.

Fine.

There’s no way he’s sitting down next to Enjolras right now, so Grantaire walks back to the bed. “What?” he asks indelicately.

Enjolras looks almost pained, like he doesn’t want to be having this conversation either. He shifts a little in his seat and sighs.

“I need to know if you’re in this,” he finally says, his voice low and quiet. He won’t look Grantaire in the eye. “I can’t go into this with you if you’re going to back out again on me. We’re partners, Grantaire, whatever you may say, and I need you to be in this. I need — I need you,” he finishes lamely. And then he looks at Grantaire. “And I can’t have you getting so drunk in the middle of the night that you can’t function the next day. Either you’re in, of you’re out, and you have to tell me which it is.”

Grantaire wants to be mad, but honestly, this is fair. He’s left Enjolras in the lurch more than once now, first with the concussion and then last night, and Enjolras has a right to call him out on it. This isn’t fair to Enjolras. It isn’t fair to either of them.

Something has to change.

“I’m out,” Grantaire says finally.

Enjolras blinks and drops his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire feels compelled to say. “You’re right, I haven’t been your partner. I don’t think I can be your partner on this. I don’t know if I can be at all anymore.”

Enjolras says nothing. He looks angry.

“I’ll call Valjean after I shower.” That’s all he can think to say.

Enjolras says nothing. He won’t even look at Grantaire.

 

This is probably the worst shower Grantaire has ever had, and that’s saying a lot. He feels so guilty, but this job, this _fucking_ job, it’s gotten to be too much for him. They’ve had hard jobs before, but this — with the kids and the marriage thing — it’s just too fucking much.

Grantaire puts off leaving the bathroom — and facing Enjolras again — for as long as he can. So it hits him with another wave of shock when he opens the door and sees Éponine, not Enjolras, sitting on the bed waiting for him.

“You’re quitting?” she demands the second she sees him.

Grantaire sighs. “I have to,” he insists.

“No, you fucking don’t!”

“Éponine,” Grantaire snaps back at her, “I am not arguing this with you, you don’t know what’s going on here.”

“I think I do,” Éponine responds. “I know you’re in love with Enjolras, okay? I know the Russians are looking for kids, and I know that’s hard for you.”

“This isn’t about you!” Grantaire yells. “It’s not about what you think you know, it’s about what I _have_ to do, okay? Now get out of my apartment, I need to pack.”

Éponine looks livid. “Grantaire —” she begins, but Grantaire shouts back at her.

“Leave!”

There’s a very pregnant silence between them while Éponine levels the coldest stare anyone other than Enjolras has ever given Grantaire. And then she turns on her heel and storms out, slamming the door of the apartment behind her.

 

Valjean isn’t happy either. In fact, Grantaire is probably letting down every single person he’s ever cared about right now. He thinks briefly about calling Jehan — perfect, special Jehan who has never judged Grantaire once in the years they’ve known each other — or maybe Bahorel — who never judges _anyone_ , who wears her own issues like a badge of honor — but he can’t stand disappointing them, and he knows this would hurt them both too. If he really is quitting, not just this job but the Bureau as a whole, then he’ll have to leave Tara. He can’t even think about that right now.

Enjolras doesn’t come back all afternoon or evening, and Grantaire doesn’t like to admit to himself that he’s waiting around as long as possible to try and see him when he does. Valjean got him a flight back to California tonight, though, and if he doesn’t get a cab to JFK now, he’ll miss his flight.

He’s actually in the cab, phone in hand, when he starts to realize — without Grantaire, Enjolras has always exhibited high-risk behavior. Enjolras isn’t subtle and he’s not good at tact and he’s almost gotten himself killed more than once before Grantaire started coming on jobs with him. Grantaire may be doing what’s best for himself, but this is not what’s best for Enjolras. And since when has Grantaire ever put himself before Enjolras?

Grantaire fumbles with his phone, trying to call Enjolras. Unsurprisingly, his call goes straight to voicemail. There’s no way Enjolras wants to talk to him right now. He’s probably on his way to the club already.

The club.

Enjolras is going to meet with those monsters alone tonight.

He doesn’t even think before he tells the cab driver to turn around. He’s at the club before he can rethink anything. The idea of Enjolras in danger. . .he can’t even contemplate it, honestly.

Enjolras is inside when Grantaire gets there, waiting at the bar for whoever he’s meeting with tonight. When he sees Grantaire, his expression becomes unreadable.

“What are you doing here?” he asks in lieu of any sort of greeting.

“I’m in,” Grantaire gasps, knowing as he says it that it’s true. “I’m in.”

Enjolras closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay,” he says quietly. “I don’t have time to argue this with you, Vasilyev will be here any second. If you’re in, fine, but how can I know that’s true?”

Wildly, Grantaire has an image of taking the step that would close the distance between them, taking Enjolras’ face between his hands and kissing him fiercely in response. Of course there’s no way he can actually do that. That would be crazier than everything else Grantaire has done in the past twenty-four hours.

“I’m in,” he says again instead. “Okay? I’ve made my choice, and I’m in.”

Enjolras frowns and regards him for a moment. He opens his mouth to say something, but he’s cut off by Vasilyev’s booming hello.

The meeting goes fairly well. They’re just seeing Vasilyev tonight, so the underlying sense of threat is gone, just the false camaraderie that they’ve shared with Vasilyev since they met him in California. Everything is going fine, until:

“Enough of this,” Vasilyev says, grinning. “We have talked business enough for tonight. You will bring the product to my boss this weekend, and all will be well.”

Enjolras smiles back at him. “I’m counting on that, friend,” he says.

“For now, let us dance!” Vasilyev says. “I have my eye of a beautiful woman over there, and I am sure you lovebirds, as they say, will enjoy a celebration. A round of drinks will be here when we return, come!”

“I don’t —” Grantaire begins, but Enjolras grabs Grantaire around the wrist and yanks him up out of his chair and onto the dance floor just as the song changes from a european dance beat to a much slower love ballad.

Their bodies slam together and Grantaire can’t catch his breath. They’re way too close, Enjolras is _way too close_ , and he can’t handle this, but he can’t pull away without risking their cover, so he stays.

He always stays.

“Why?” Grantaire whispers to Enjolras.

“We’re married,” Enjolras mutters back, his lips way too close to Grantaire’s ear. “You want to explain to Vasilyev why you don’t want to dance with me?”

“It’s not that I —” Grantaire begins, but stops. “You clearly don’t want to dance with _me_ , right?”

Enjolras doesn’t answer, but he does sigh sharply in exasperation in Grantaire’s ear. Grantaire can’t stand how Enjolras’ hand feels inside his.

“Why didn’t you leave?” Enjolras asks softly, surprising Grantaire, who leans back a little, accidentally pressing into the hand Enjolras has placed on the small of his back.

“I didn’t want to leave you alone,” Grantaire replies honestly, because he can’t think to lie at this moment. Not with Enjolras so close.

Enjolras frowns. “You stayed for me?” he asks.

“Not — well. . . . Yeah, I guess.”

Enjolras is staring at Grantaire with something like. . .surprise? And something else Grantaire can’t place. Something that looks so unfamiliar on Enjolras’ face.

The air between them is electric. Grantaire can’t breathe. And then, _oh_ and then.

Enjolras’ eyes flit down to his lips.

Before Grantaire can think, before he can process what’s happening here, Enjolras breaks away from him and walks quickly back to the table they’ve been sharing with Vasilyev, downs the drink that’s waiting there for him.

What just happened? Did Enjolras just. . .was he thinking about _kissing_ Grantaire? There’s no way. No possibility that’s what just went on.

Grantaire is frozen on the dance floor.

What just happened?


End file.
